Unrequited
by camnz
Summary: AU - The Malfoys run Paris in the new order, ruthlessly maintaining the structures that allows their own to thrive, but sacrifices must be made. This is a series of three shorter stories.
1. Chapter 1

A/N - so this story cropped up, finally. It is a series of shorter stories with a central theme. The Malfoys are lucky in most respects, but not all.

Chapter 1

The water of the Seine moved like a slowly undulating black snake, reflecting the lights on its dark surface, hiding whatever lurked underneath. Scorpius stared down on its surface, thinking of all the things hiding in the rivers bottom, centuries of lost treasure and sunk secrets. There were always bodies in the Seine, a place for hiding the unlucky or unscrupulous. Rivers had always been an easy way of disposing of a body, if one must.

The night was dark and cold, moonless, but with the amount of lights in the city these days, such things didn't matter anymore. True darkness was hard to find in a city, where the muggles went around the business unknowing of the dangers that lurked in the shadows.

The Malfoys ran the city, or the wizarding parts of the city. Paris had been theirs since Voldemort's spectacular rise. That is what everyone called it. The man himself hadn't been quite right since the killing of Harry Potter at Hogwarts, that place of ruin and legend. Voldemort was still the most powerful wizard to living memory, but he spent his days in solitude, raving and raging, trying to find protection for his immortality. Sanity was what he should be aiming for, but the man could not be reasoned with, leaving the running of the world to the strong and powerful.

The Malfoys had chosen France when the world was divided, seeking to establish their rule and escape the mad machinations of their leader. Others could suffer his random displeasure. They had France, and they were the undisputed rulers.

The resistance still existed; vain attempts to wretch power away, whispering in the ears of the weak and disaffected, but they rarely achieved more than a skirmish. Hunted, they ran like rats, but for some incomprehensible reason, they refused to surrender, to fade away and accept that the new order was here to stay.

His long blond hair fluttered slightly in the wind as he opened the window, letting in the city air. Pale eyes scanned the quiet streets below, watching for the trouble that had been brewing in the resistance's hidden lairs around the city. Their actions were desperate and at times vicious, aimed to terrorize and disrupt.

Scorpius was born in this very house and now his role was to enforce the rules of the new order. They ensured nothing upset the smooth running of the city and that the resistance was eliminated whenever they were come across—executed anyone who stepped out of line, or in any way threatened the family or its enterprises.

He heard Draco approaching, hearing the footsteps on the soft carpet down the hall, approaching to appear in his typical dark suit and meticulously cut hair. Draco was particularly reviled by the resistance. It was him that had had to do most of the work to track down and eliminate the remnants of the enemy after the war. A necessary act, he had called it. Necessary for the peace and stability they now enjoyed and thrived by.

Hogwarts was never rebuilt, wizarding education now served entirely by Beau Baton and Durmstrang, the lenient attitudes of Hogwarts not tolerated in this new world.

"We have uncovered a cell," Draco said, heading to the bar to pour himself a fire whiskey. "We move against it tonight." Draco's face was cold and expressionless. The war and the time after had made Draco hard; Lucius said so. Growing up, it was often Lucius that Scorpius would turn to when he needed advice or understanding. Draco had little patience for either, and there was no leeway in the Malfoy family for weakness. Probably why the relationship between Scorpius' parents never survived. Draco was indifferent about its failure as he was about most things, other than securing their powerbase and enterprise. Some say he enjoyed the killing too much, other say it was the death of Narcissa that had made him so hard, but Scorpius wasn't sure. There seemed to be other ghosts there, ghosts Draco never talked about. One had to be careful how one handled Draco.

"When are we moving against them?"

"Eminently. Prepare."

Turning back to the twinkling lights of the city, Scorpius closed the window, shutting away the noise and turned back to his father who stood with his back to him. "How many are there?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Intelligence suggests there are ten."

"Anything of note to worry about?"

"Nothing. They are not particularly skills, nor powerful. It will just be a matter of lancing the wound."

Scorpius had plans that evening, a dinner party at one of the French aristocrat's house. The term had evolved over time, to refer to the old families that supported Voldemort's regime—clearing away the scum was more like it. Entertainment always had to take a back seat to protection of the realm. It was his true duty and one he embraced. A bit of the fear and wariness that surrounded his father were true for him as well, and he loved being watched and feared, people seeking his approval and good graces.

Making his way across the hall to his quarters, he undressed and put on his hunting robes. Dark robes with protective spells sewn into the very material, meant to dissipate energy bursts. They couldn't take the direct hit of an Aveda Kedarva, but they served some protection from lesser curses, particularly from the weaker talents they typically encountered, and the resistance typically made up of lesser wizards, tainted with impure blood and poor schooling.

He pulled on his boots and holstered his wand at the side of his hip. Black boots were pulled on last, making him a vision in black, except the soft, blond hair, which he rarely tied back.

The car was waiting outside, ready to take them through the streets of Paris. The vehicle was sleek and crept down the streets like a predator. No one got in the way of their vehicles. Scorpius sat in a vehicle with Draco, while their enforcers were in the vehicle behind.

They had been searching for this cell for a while and Scorpius was pleased to finally wipe it out, stopping it from unsettling the city and interfering with them. Hopefully this was the last dinner party interrupted by these vermin.

The car stopped down a dark alley and they silently got out. The enforcers surrounded the building, applying the charms that kept anymore from disapparating out. They were ready to go in, and there was no indication that their presence had been observed.

A fizzing noise hit the shields, making it glow green for a moment.

"I guess the rats know the cats are here," Draco said, staring up at the building with narrowed eyes. "Take them," he yelled to the enforcers nearby. They stormed through the shields and ran toward the entrances. Draco followed, stepping over the felled body of one of the enforcers, turning to Scorpius. "They are playing rough. Beware."

Scorpius nodded and continued up the stairs after his father, until they reached a landing where hexes flew from above. The enforcers fired back and Draco stepped out, firing a killing curse. A body fell down the staircase well, but more curses soon followed, with further coming from down the hall to their left.

"You take that one," Draco directed, sending Scorpius after whoever was firing at them from over left. Turning around, his robes flaring, Scorpius crossed the hall to a bay that gave him a better vantage point. Curses hit around him, but he kept his focus on the target: the man firing curses at him from down the hall. Stepping out, Scorpius blocked a curse, sending its energy ricocheting into the wall.

The man disappeared into the room and Scorpius followed, finding him behind the protrusion of a fireplace, sending more curses Scorpius' way. Again, he deflected, firing back as the man tried to withdraw. Draco fired low, getting the man in his legs and he fell screaming to the ground. Crossing the space, Scorpius kicked him in the head and the man whipped back, rolling over onto his stomach, searching for his wand.

He was dressed like a vagrant and had blood pouring from his nose. These people felt it was their right to tear down everything they had built. What right did they have? They were a blight on the wizarding world and every one of the needed to be wiped out. Scorpius put his foot down on the man's neck wanting to snap it underneath his boot, but a searing pain shot through his shoulder.

The voice of a woman's sectumsempra echoed off the walls in the room that otherwise had no furniture. Heat and pain scorched through him, and he felt the stickiness of his own blood inside his robes. The robes had protected him from some of the curse, but not all.

Scorpius swore as he whipped around, seeking the person that had injured him. He saw her, dressed in a cardigan and skirt, holding her want in her hand. She was pale with golden hair, by the look of her, seemingly unfit to produce such a destructive curse. But she had; she had injured him. For all he knew, it was a serious injury and he suffer complications from it. Rage surged through him, dulling the pain. This would not be borne.

The girl faltered, taking a step back before firing something that was much too easy to deflect. When his back was turned, she could fire a grave and harmful charm, but to his face, she couldn't muster the same force. He shot a burning hex, getting her in the leg and she screamed, but stayed upright.

She limped away from him as fast as she could, but there was no use. She tried to disapparate, but the charm kept her from escaping. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," Scorpius said and the shock and disappointment was clear on her face. Trying again, she fired something, but she was no match for his skill. A reductor whipped her wand out of her hard and she was now defenceless.

Turning awkwardly, she hobbled to the door behind them, but Scorpius locked it with a charm. She tugged frantically on the handle, but it wouldn't give.

"Nowhere to run," he said and she turned to him, her face glossy with tears. Her golden hair was curled around a barrette at the side of her head and her eyes were green, large and glassy with tears. Pink, plump lips trembled. She was actually quite pretty and young, a sharp chin on a heart-shaped face. He'd never seen her which meant she was probably a mudblood someone had trained. He wished they wouldn't do that. She would probably have lived quite a long life in the muggle world, but someone had through it a good idea to bring her in where she didn't belong. And this was the result. They tended to be quite pretty, these mudbloods, as if they were meant to seduce. "Taken on a bit more than you can chew. You should have known it was foolhardy to take on your superiors," he spat.

Silently, she pressed her back to the door, watching him with her large, fearful eyes. Standing wide, he brought his hands together, his wand held low. "Fatal mistake, in fact," he continued, his voice calm.

Again, she didn't say anything, just watched him as he reached up and placed his gloved hand over the throat, feeling her muscles, windpipe and ligaments underneath. She knew the game was up. Her lips parted slightly, ragged breath escaping through her teeth. Bringing his wand up, he put it under her chin. She raised that pointed chin, staring him in the eyes, her pride refusing to see her cower before him. "Aveda Kedarva," he said softly, watching as her eyes grew wide with shock then unfocused. She slumped to the ground when he let go of her throat.

She was quite pretty, he conceded, for a minute surveying her crumpled form, but they wouldn't be leaving anyone alive tonight. It was a shame to kill beauty, but she'd hitched her wagon to this; it would never have ended any other way.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Scorpius' apartments were still when he returned. His fingers were still buzzing from the magics he had wielded that night. He should be going to the dinner party, but he wasn't in the mood now. The night had left a bad taste in his mouth, but he wasn't entirely sure why. Instead, he retired to his apartments and opened the windows to the city, letting the cold air rush in.

The fire roared in the marble and brass fireplace. He preferred their mansion here in Paris to the family seat in Windsor, with is medieval walls and drafty rooms. In fact, he'd spent very little time in England throughout his life, away at Durmstrang during his formative years, to take up his role as enforcer when finally rejoining his family.

Walking to the bar, he poured himself a fire whiskey, just as his father had earlier. They had done well, the city was yet again saved from chaos by the removal of the resistance. Even the girl with her pretty eyes and luscious trembling lips. He placed her out of his mind, a fleeting connection that would never be anything more. Taking someone's life was an act of intimacy, no matter how one looked at it, but it fleeted away like sand.

Glass in hand, he retreated to the couch and sat down, placing his feet on the lacquered coffee table. The whiskey warmed its way down his throat, clearing away the smoke and destruction of the evening. Power had great responsibility; he'd always been told that. One had to do what one must to strengthen and preserve it, and one wasn't strong enough to have it if one baulked at these things.

Checking his watch, he saw that it was late, not too late to go out if he wanted to, but too late for the dinner party. He could go out of one of the wizard clubs, where he was treated like a god, or even one of the muggle clubs to pick up some piece of trash to waste himself in for the evening, but he couldn't be bothered.

Instead he pulled his boots and shirt off and padded into the bathroom, the stone seeping into his bare feet. Bending over, he poured water into the sink and washed his hands and face, clearing any dirt off his skin, clearing away any grub from the evening's activities.

He patted himself dry with a white, fluffy towel and turned out the lights, taking himself to bed and laying down on top of the blankets. Suddenly he felt tired, exhaustion seeping strength from his limbs. He lay shirtless and barefoot, in only his pants, his blond hair spread across his pillow as he slowed his breathing.

-0-

Waking with a start, he felt icy, his skin cold and stinging. His breath formed vapor as he exhaled. Painfully he sat up. The room was freezing and he remembered he'd left the window open. Getting up, he walked past the still roaring fire, which did little to warm the room, and closed the window.

It wasn't snowing outside, but it certainly seemed cold enough to. Water fell on the window pane as he closed it. It was raining, drops distorting the view through the pane.

Turning, he made for the fire which seemed muted in fighting off the cold. He crouched and added another log, which crackled as it caught fire. Slowly, his front was warming, but he shuddered with the cold, stopping his teeth from hacking. He stoked the fire further and then made his way back to the bed, considering whether he should take his pants of as he normally did, but he was too cold.

Crawling under the duvet, he huddled against the cold of the sheets, trying to find the spot he had lain on earlier. The sheets soon warmed and he started to relax. He fire still did nothing to defeat the cold in the room and he felt icy currents come and go across his face. There was a draft drawing cold air into the room. He had to get one of the elves to find and seal it in the morning.

As he slowly warmed, he fell asleep again, to wake to weak sunlight in the morning. Paris was awake and the muggles were moving around relentlessly as they always did. Tourists were on the half-full boats, floating along the river, a tour guide spewing useless facts to uninterested visitors. Scorpius wished he could sink the boat, but it would bring lots of muggles with their blaring sirens for days on end. It plain wasn't worth it.

The room was still freezing, although understandable as the fire had died down. Sprinting into the bathroom, he turned on the shower and waited for it to heat. Steam filled the glass compartment and he stepped inside, letting the warm water wash away any discomfort in his body.

A noise crept into his ears and he turned to the glass door, wiping the steam so he could see out. Nothing stood in the doorway. He'd through someone was there, even though few would walk in on him while in the shower. Probably just a careless elf making its presence known. Anger flared through him; anger at being interrupted. The elves should know better.

Stepping out and wrapping a towel around his hips, he saw steam rising off his shoulders in the mirror. It shouldn't be this cold in here. Something had broken or something and needed to be fixed. The elves would have to tend to it.

"Kreacher," he called and the decrepit elf appeared, bowing low.

"There is something wrong. A draft is stealing the heat out of the room. Find where it's coming from and address it." He looked down sharply at the creature through the mirror and it bowed again. It disappeared with a pop and Scorpius turned to the wardrobe, pulling out a dark suit set, made by the finest tailors in Paris. The material was rich, almost soaking up light to reflect pure blackness. He smiled as he ran his hand over the lush material.

-0-

Lucius was meeting with the French muggle government today and they had to be in attendance, the three of them intimidating the muggle president's representatives. Scorpius sat down on a chair along the side in Lucius' sumptuous office as the muggle representative was brought in—a man in his fifties in a grey suit with similar skin and hair. It was the most boring and nondescript man Scorpius had ever seen and he wondered how the man could stand himself.

"It is only fair that every citizen in France pay taxes, as should the wizard community."

"And they do, for the services provided by the wizard administration," Lucius said drolly. "Your government provide no services to wizard France, hence you have no claim to taxation on them."

The French government knew full well that the wizard world, they in particular, provided a fair chunk of black market goods and services to the muggles, and the muggle government wanted its claim.

"It is an issue of solidarity."

"Solidary is hardly an issues, Mr. Batton, we are not integrated. Wizard France runs in parallel to … yours, we are not ruled by the government you represent. And may I remind you that we have been here since the beginning of time. We are not the same species; we are different and as you know, there is little to gain from … the people you represent to be aware of our existence."

"And if they were to become aware?"

"Then as in the past, we will rule them." Lucius said it slowly and clearly so there was no chance of misinterpretation.

Mr. Batton turned beat red, his lips tightening into a sphincter. Scorpius smirked at the man's discomfort and offence. The muggles didn't like being reminded of the insignificant creatures they were.

"Of course, it is an outcome either of us wants to see. More trouble than it's worth, you understand," Lucius cooed, fully aware that this was an informative session rather than a negotiation. "Now, shall we lay this issue to rest?"

"I'm afraid this is not an issue the government feels is equitably resolved."

Lucius turned his head to the side and considered the man. "I'm afraid there will be no other outcome. You have no influence over this. Our banks are entirely separated from your own, which further signifies that you have no right to interfere in our economics."

"But money laundering is illegal no matter which part of France you happen to be standing on, Mr. Malfoy. And as citizens of France, human or otherwise, you are responsible to those laws."

"I assure you, Mr. Batton, that no such activities occur within our organizations. As for us, any trade we conduct with the muggle world is done through Malfoy Investments, which adheres completely with all commercial tax laws, including yours." Malfoy investments were little more than a shell, managing shares on the muggle exchanges. The real business was done elsewhere, and some of it took in huge sums of Euros, which they had interesting ways of clearing. The government obviously knew, or suspected, but had no proof. Even if they did have proof, they would be wary of acting on it.

The meeting finished and Scorpius rose, buttoning his suit jacket as he did. A small spec of lint had landed on his arm and he flicked it off. Mr. Batton was showed out by Lucius' secretary.

"I think we are done here," Draco said and rose. "Do you suspect Mr. Batton will continue to stir trouble within the muggle administration?" he asked Lucius.

"I suspect Mr. Batton has got a bee in his bonnet. Might have to see him right, but not yet."

Scorpius left them to it, pulling out his muggle phone to text Calvin. These muggle phones had proved too useful to ignore, although they were adopted exclusively by the younger generation. He wanted to know what they were doing that night.

Returning to his room, a rush of cold air confronted him as he opened the door to his apartments. "KREACHER!" he screamed, and the elf appeared down the hall, far enough to be out of reach. The little elf was smarter than most of them. "It isn't fixed."

The elf bowed deeply. "We haven't found the source of the cold, my lord. There are no broken windows and we haven't been able to find the origin of the draft."

"I want this fixed by the time I get back tonight," he said, looking down at the cowering elf, trying to calm by breathing through his nose. He hated incompetence.

-0-

A/N For those of you who speak Spanish, Sabrina Weasley, who translated 'Who needs Friends' to ¿Quién necesita amigos?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The damn elves couldn't seem to fix the draft in his rooms and Scorpius was at the end of his patience. He'd decided to go out that night to a dinner party in a Chateau in the south of France, owned by the family of one of his Durmstrang friends.

The ceiling above them depicted some ancient battle, where the family hero was prancing around on a white horse in golden armor, looking heroic. Goblins and muggles trembled in fear. Somehow, Scoprius was pretty sure the true battle didn't go down like the mural depicted, but history was written by the winners and the ugly truth of battle was often hidden.

Claudine was pouting next to him, her light brown hair silky and smooth around her bared shoulders. She looked best when she was pouting, but her anger was usually skin deep. "You didn't come last week," she said tartly in French.

"Had something to take care of."

"I missed you." Scorpius hated it when she was clingy. He smiled. "I'm sorry. We had to work."

"I don't like it when you do that. I get concerned something will happen to you."

He snorted, "It would be the rare day some traitor would get the better of me."

"I just wish you didn't have to do it. How long will these traitors keep making trouble?"

"Every great civilization has its enemies. It is just the way of things."

"Will you come home with me tonight?"

"Not tonight." He wasn't in the mood for a night with his intended; he rarely was. There was nothing wrong with her, her pedigree was impeccable, and she tried really hard, but truthfully, being with her wasn't something he sought before they actually had to marry and live together. The arrangement had been made when he'd been very little and he'd never had a reason to challenge it. He had to marry someone and with Claudine there was the benefit of her being malleable and easily managed. She cared for him, but he was a vehicle to the life she wanted and deserved. Expensive things always improved her disposition. They both knew what the score was.

"Luca, I heard you found one of Phrytten's original texts in some barn in Hungary."

"I did. Worth a fortune," the young Italian said, his hair glossy shining in the copious candlelight. "It will go on auction next month. It is amazing what people have forgotten in dusty corners." Luca considered himself a treasure hunter and had some success too. A year previous, tracking old documents and maps, he'd found a sealed cave some ancient Russian wizard had stashed his treasure. It had been quite an event, the papers around the world covering the find, the wizard community in a tiff about the ancient treasures uncovered.

"I heard you uncovered a resistance cell last week," Tyrell said, wiping an invisible stain off his dark dress robes.

"Uncovered and cleared. No survivors."

"Good," Tyrell said. "If these people won't finally learn that the world is changed, we are all better off without them. Good riddance."

Scorpius' thoughts turned to the young woman with the trembling lips. Why had she done it? What drove these people to die for this stupid cause? He couldn't understand it. If you bate a bear, eventually it will turn and swipe you down. That was the natural order, and you were foolish to fight it. "They are uniquely idiotic."

"We are probably all better off if these people are no longer here to breed," Claudine said to agreement around the table.

"They benefit from the Dark Lord's protection like everyone else, but there are always some people who insist on biting the hand that feeds them, picking on an old wound, refusing to let it heal. The only option is the lance the wound and clear the malcontents once and for all.

They retreated to a set of sofas made of white and gold brocade. As opposed to the darker medieval fashion in the finest families in Britain, the French leant more to baroque architecture and décor. Having grown up in France, Scorpius preferred the French in almost every respect. Rarely had he reason to go back to England, and his affinity with it was tenable.

Apparating home, he appeared in the massive hallway, just inside the door. It had been a typical evening in the finest company of his generation. He should have them around soon, plan a proper party with entertainers. Maybe a masked ball. A bit of intrigue always added a bit of spice. So did the idea of chasing some girl, stripped of identity, seducing based on nothing but skill. His identity usually achieve that for him, so it was nice to actually have to work for it—once in a while.

A blast of cold air hit him as he threw open the doors to his apartment. "Fucking useless elves," he screamed. As he hadn't requested them, none turned up. "Why can't someone just fix this?"

"What are you screaming for?" his father's voice was heard down the hall.

Scorpius tensed as he couldn't help doing around his father. "There is a draft in my room the elves can't seem to block."

Draco moved forward and stopped at the doorway, looking into the apartment. "I can feel it."

"For a week the elves have said they'll fix it."

"Perhaps you should ask one of the maintenance wizards from the Ministry to have a look."

"I might have to. Did you want something?"

"Lucius wants you to come to dinner on Friday."

"Fine," Scorpius said. They didn't eat together that often, particularly as Lucius had the country to run and did most of his work in the fine restaurants around Paris. Someone was always petitioning him for something.

"At Malfoy Manor."

Scorpius' heart sank. He hated going to Malfoy Manor with all its history and memories he didn't share. But Lucius sometimes insisted they keep in touch with the old country. "Fine," Scorpius said, with less enthusiasm this time.

With a last look Draco left and Scorpius watched them go. Their relationship wasn't what it should be. It never had been. Scorpius knew Draco loved him, but he had difficulty showing his affection.

Turning his attention back to his apartment, his brow creased. He didn't want to put up with this anymore. He closed the door and moved down the hall to one of the guest rooms. Until it was fixed he'd just have to sleep elsewhere.

The room was beige and white and it looked like a hotel room, but it would do for now. Scorpius pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. The resistance had moved onto this muggle technology first and they'd have to follow to track them, but the usefulness of it was something they'd grudgingly had to accept, even if the older generation flatly refused to embrace it.

He watched a replay of the Italy versus Germany quidditch match, but grew sleepy and undressed before crawling under the blankets.

-0-

Anxiously, he twisted away from the burning wand moving down the skin of his chest. He couldn't get away from it, being restrained, tortured, surrounded by dank darkness. He sought a means to escape the shadowy figure burning his skin, but the restraints held him in place. It didn't speak and he could see nothing but darkness within its hood. His chest clamped down like he couldn't breathe.

He woke with a start, his heart beating wildly, still urgently trying to escape the hooded person intent on harm. Grasping his wand, he wished there was something he could fight, hating the helpless feeling the dream had instilled in him. _He_ was not helpless. _He_ was the one their enemies sought to escape from. No one was stronger than them.

After a few moments of breathing, he noticed his breath forming mist in front of him. The room was freezing. It hadn't been like this when he entered last night, but now, it was freezing, maybe even worse than it had been. Frost crawled up the inside of the window, glowing against the blackness outside.

Leaning over, Draco turned on the lights, trying to see if he could spot something in the room that had caused it. There were no open window and this room was considerably smaller than his apartment.

As he sat, his pale chest was chilling and he thought about getting up to put on a sweater or something, but these weren't his rooms and he had no clothes here other than what he'd worn last night. His wand was lying next to him on the bed table and he grabbed it and shot flames into the fireplace, which slowly heated the room.

But it was more than chill that ached on his chest, he hadn't noticed at first when he'd initially noticed the extreme chill in the room. Now that the chill was grudgingly being pushed out, he noticed there was something more.

Looking down, he saw red welts running down his chest, precisely as he'd been tortured in his dreams. His eyes narrowed. He was under attacked in some way, by someone very cunning. With a firm grip on his wand, he placed protective barriers around the room, hopefully cutting off anyone's reach into the space he occupied. This had to be dealt with in the morning. He had to track who was doing this and rip them apart. No wonder the elves couldn't find the source—this was someone doing malice from outside. This he could deal with.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Scorpius had erected every ward he could think of. His apartments were locked up so tight not even radio waves were coming through. Nothing was getting into his apartments including the elves. In meant he had to clean the place himself, which wasn't such a burden considering he could just flick his wand. Right now, he just wanted rid of this damn cold.

It started to feel a little warmer, but there was a still a distinct chill. Scorpius guessed it would take some time to degrade, whatever spell had been inflicted on his personal space. This wasn't just some random attack, it was personal, targeted where he slept.

Draco was looking into who was attacking them, having engaged one of the charm masters to look into the issue. Scorpius sat back and relaxed, letting his father chase down the culprit. It was snowing again outside and the fire roared in the grate, enough to warm him as he sat on the sofa, feeling bored with the whole thing.

Perhaps he should find out what everyone was up to—the bored elite, forever searching for entertainment and distraction. He wouldn't even mind following Draco somewhere to beat up someone not towing the line. Draco was the consummate bully. Anyone who put themselves in his way, or stepped out of line, got it, swiftly and brutally. It kept insurrection at bay. Fear truly was the most effective tool for ruling.

A text pinged through on his phone, but he knew it was Claudine and he couldn't be bothered with her relentless neediness. Picking up his wand, he skinned an apple, slowly peeling the skin off it, seeing the juice spirt as he magically cut into cells. Merlin, he was bored, and bored made him cranky.

Suddenly he wanted to move, to stretch, feel his muscles work. He took good care of his body, keeping himself in shape. It was a point of principle. Looking good was important; added to the image of the family, of their invulnerability.

Again his mind turned back to the girl he'd killed, her tatty cardigan and dress. She had been much to pretty for those poor clothes. Why did they fight? He didn't understand. This was how things were supposed to be. What was the point fighting it?

Discomfort drove him off the sofa and he turned to his wardrobe. He needed to move, burn some energy. Undressing, he pulled on a pair of grey shorts and a dressing gown before heading downstairs to the pool located in a high vaulted room, which was completely silent, the water lying motionless and slack in its large basin. The windows in the pool room were always steamy, heat rising from the pool and distorting the view outside.

Slipping his white dressing gown off, he walked over the rough stone slabs and dived into the pool, feeling the warm water caress his skin. It felt heavenly and he emerged after swimming a good half-length under water. Noise echoed off the walls now—water rushing over the edge of the pool into its hidden receptors around the pool.

With speed, he swam the length and back, feeling the water move around his body. He stopped in the middle, where it was too deep to stand. All of the pool was too deep to stand. This wasn't a pool for frightened children. Lucius didn't necessarily believe in leisure, so he didn't build much for the pointless activity, including this pool, which was meant for exercise.

Cold currents swirled around his legs, which was strange. The cool spread up his legs, making him freeze. Goosebumps rose quickly, making his skin tighten painfully. The cold was intensifying and he feared the water would freeze around him.

With his heart beating and lungs burning, he set off at pace for the edge, when burning cold clenched around his ankle, dragging him under the icy water. He heard nothing but his own heart beat and the air coming out of his lungs. Fear speared up his spine, tensing his whole body, but he refused to give into it. Under attack, he couldn't panic. Don't panic he told himself, forcing himself to still.

A tug forced him down deeper and he looked down, trying to spot what was acting against him, but there was nothing. Clear cold water was all he could see as he opened his eyes. Not even the slight distortion around a disillusion charm. His ankle still burned from where the thing had touched him, but now his lungs were burning from lack of oxygen. He had to get up, had to get air. His arms pumping, he forced himself up to the surface, forcing his body through the water. The ceiling was above him, dome shaped through the water. It seemed an eternity away.

He had no wand. It was in the pocket of the dressing gown and now he was vulnerable—in water, where he could drown so easily. Something slashed along his thigh, he felt the sharp burn of it. He saw no blood, but it felt like he'd been cut. With desperation, he focused all his attention to the surface. He had to get there. Lungs screaming for air and panic threatened to blind everything from his mind.

Flailing, he felt like he wasn't getting there, finally fearing that he might actually die. The surface came suddenly and he roared air into his lungs, looking around desperately for what was in the water with him. Beyond doubt, he wasn't alone in the pool and something was attacking him.

With harsh strokes, he swam to the edge, expecting another attack, but nothing came. The edge of was almost within his grip and he begged to reach it. His fingers clasped around the edge and he pulled himself out of the water in a smooth move leaving him crumpled on the edge. Urgently he shifted away from the edge unless he got pulled in again.

Powerful heartbeats pumped against his chest wall. Looking down, he saw red welts running along his thigh. Four of them in a row, like thin, skeletal fingers. They were around his ankle as well, pain searing up his leg and horror filled his mind for a moment, soon being pushed out by pure rage.

The rage wasn't enough to compensate for the iciness that had set into his body. His breath was condensating again and ice had crept up the lower part of the windows. This coldness hadn't been there when he got here, it had come and it had attacked him. Fury coursed through him as he rose, his leg aching in latent pain.

-0-

It stood in the doorway watching him, knowing it wasn't seen. He was there, the pale one. It hated him. It was the only thing it knew, hate directed at the pale young man. Cold hate emanated from fingers, freezing anything it touched.

Red welts ran along the man's thigh as he stood in the shower, naked now under the steaming water. It had placed them there. The ability to touch him, to hurt him, had been a revelation. Icy fingers reached through blankets and clothes, and scorched him.

The notion of form had just entered its mind. It had no past, no identity, no purpose other than to hate. Now there was fingers for touching, hurting.

The man leaned on the tiled wall, the hot water making his shoulders red. The urge to touch him again grew, to see him contort in pain, but abruptly he turned off the water and stepped out, naked, his slim form with corded muscles. If he was beautiful, it didn't notice. There was only hate.

Quickly, he stroked the towel along his limbs and let it drop to the floor as he walked with unseeing eyes. Solid form moved through mist and he continued, unaware he had passed by the thing that hated him.

Dressing quickly, he pulled on a shirt and pants, then a black jacket. As black as his heart.

The man left and it thought of following, but it was too tired. Too much energy had been used and now it was empty—too empty to follow. Touching took energy, rage fueling its actions, but now energy was depleted.

The hated one returned with another, older and colder.

"Even with the wards, it is reaching me," the hated one said. "I don't know how, but it must be someone very powerful. Who is powerful enough to get through our wards and attack me physically?"

The cold one slowly walked around the room, twisting a silver cufflink. "I don't know. Perhaps we need to get the professionals in, see if we can trace where this is coming from."

"Can you feel the chill?"

"Yes," the cold one said. "I will send a message, have Heffing come."

The cold one left and the other sat down on the sofa with his arms crossed, mouth drawn tight. It wanted to dig its fingers into his chest and pull him apart, aching to hurt, to scar the pale skin.

He pulled out a small, flat box and focused his attention there, while it stalked around him.

The cold one returned with a short man with glass making his eyes too large for his face. "Let's see," the man said as he lifted his wand and closed his eyes, moving like he was feeling the air. He walked around the apartment, eyes still closed and grunted when he walked into objects.

"There is a definite chill and I think it's colder over here."

"What is it?"

The man with brown hair combed over his balding head concentrated further. "There is nothing."

"What do you mean there is nothing?" the hated one demanded. "We can all feel it. Don't tell me it's nothing!"

The man tried again, mumbling as he felt the air. "It's not magical," he said, lowering his wand. "Other than the object emanating, which are all harmless, there is nothing here. Not even a trace."

"You're useless," the hated one screamed. "Get out."

The cold one didn't move as the small one rushed past.

"He's obviously worthless if he can't find anything. It couldn't be more obvious that there is something here."

A small knock on the door signified the short man's return. He refused to step into the apartment and looked ready to run if anyone so much as moved. "You might have to consider metaphysical," the man said in a squeaky voice.

"Metaphycisal?" the cold one repeated.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

The short man made a peeping sound and disappeared.

"It means you could be … haunted," the cold one said, looking down at the other who stared disbelievingly.

"That's ridiculous."

"Probably," the cold one said and walked out the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Scorpius sat at a bar not far from his house, girls around him chatting innately, trying to give him meaningful looks, but he wished they were gone. It would be closing time soon and he had to leave. He considered going to another bar, one that stayed open, but he couldn't bear the flashing lights and pounding music. In fact, he didn't want to be here at all. It certainly wasn't fun when you had to be there, but he was sick of being cold at home, even as he sat by the fire. So now, he didn't go home—stayed at whatever bar/club until he was too tired or drunk to stand. The only thing that truly warmed him were showers, hot water flowing, thawing out his body. This had to end. Lucius had someone coming. Some specialist that was being flown in from India.

Sleeping elsewhere didn't help; the damned thing found him. He'd watched the breath icing, coming out of whoever girl he'd picked as he lay, in her bedroom, no matter how far away. This was it; he was at the end of his tether.

The only thing he could do was get so drunk it did matter. He would be beyond hating how he listened for a sound, watched the windows constantly for the ice to change. If he was drunk, he slept and let the thing rage.

Lifting a finger, he ordered another fire whiskey, downing it in large gulps. One of the girls ran her hand up his leg, but he ignored it. This expert would come and fix it. He just had to wait.

-0-

Keeping his eyes closed, Scorpius lay under the blanket, pretending to still sleep. He surveyed his body, searching for anymore slashes from the thing, but there were none tonight. Anger grew. It was unbearable that he'd been reduced to this, shivering under his blanket like some frightened child. He wanted to kill so badly, crush something under his foot. The damned thing just didn't have anything to crush—but he would find some way to kill it. Help was coming.

Scorpius showered and dressed, certain he could feel its presence in the room, the iciness trying to draw the heat out of his reddened skin. Taking his time, he walked out of the room, refusing to make is show that the thing was chasing him out. He took the stairs downstairs and joined his father who was reading the Daily Prophet at the breakfast table.

"How is our house guest this morning?" Draco asked.

"Still there."

Draco looked up momentarily before looking back. "Madam Priya will be here momentarily. I understand she has landed."

"Good," Scorpius said and picked up a plate off the buffet table. He needed hot food these days, particularly in the morning, to warm him from the inside. This thing just had to end. They would kill it and forget this ever happened. "Where is Lucius?"

"Rome," Draco stated. He always seemed to know Lucius' schedule, while Scorpius had no idea. Not that he really wanted to know. His involvement in the family business was enough as it was. One day, he would have to be closer intertwined with their activities, but for now, he was fine being partially his own person, with a life and identity away from the hard, cold realities of ruling.

Scorpius ate quickly and a commotion was soon heard from the hall. Elves were letting someone in and this must be the expert they were awaiting. Lightness filled Scorpius. This would all be resolved now.

They both stood and met the woman as she entered the room, wearing a worn coat and her straggly, white hair done up in a bun. By the look of her Scorpius suspected the woman hadn't had a shower in a while. In fact, she looked like some homeless tramp, but this was the expert.

"Madam Priya," Draco said cordially. "It is encouraging that you could come." The woman eyed the food behind them, licking her lips. "Are you hungry? You are welcome to eat."

She shuffled over to the buffet table.

"Where did you find her?" Scorpius said, eyeing her disheveled appearance. "Are you sure she is capable?" She didn't look like she was capable of much of anything.

"Looks can be deceiving, Scorpius," Draco said.

"I can feel her," the woman said, taking her filled plate to Scorpius' chair.

"Her?" Draco said.

"Definitely female. Weak."

"She isn't weak," Scorpius said, realizing that it sounded like he was defending her. No, she wasn't weak because she was wreaking havoc on his life.

The woman chuckled and started eating. It wasn't a sight Scorpius particularly wanted to see so he turned away and went to the library, lighting a cigarette out of agitation and boredom. Breakfast time was definitely too early to drink, and he wanted to be sharp for this thing's demise. Sitting down, Scorpius relaxed, assured that this would end now.

Footsteps on the marble filtered through the door and Scorpius joined them as Draco took Madam Priya upstairs. They slowly walked to his apartments and she stopped just outside, before taking a step inside. Scorpius almost expected something to happen, that the entity knew it was about to be destroyed, but nothing. Just the constant chill.

"She is here," the woman said. "Unformed."

"What does that mean?" Scorpius demanded.

"She does not know what she is?"

"It doesn't know what it's doing? Then why is it here? Get rid of it."

The woman closed her eyes, swaying slightly on her feet. "She is linked to you. Sever and both parties bleed."

Scorpius stared at the mad woman. "What do you mean you can't get rid of it?" he said sharply, hissing between his teeth.

"How did this happen?" Draco cut in.

"Link formed," the woman repeated and Scorpius clenched his fists. The stupid woman already said that. "Death at his hands and instead of seeking Great Darkness, she sought him. Link formed."

"Unform it," Scorpius demanded.

"I cannot. You will bleed and bleed attracts things."

"What things?"

"Other things, nasty things."

"So how do I get rid of it?" Scorpius was near losing his cool.

"Only the parties can sever the link."

"How?"

"It is here," she said, pointing to his belly. "It flows between you. You feed her."

"What does she look like?" Draco said.

"She is unformed."

"Unformed," Scorpius repeated. What the hell does that mean?

"But you are responsible for her death." Scorpius' thoughts traveled immediately to the pretty girl with the quivering lips. He knew it was her in his gut, where this supposed link was. He suspected it was all bullshit.

"Tell me how to sever the link."

"You have to find it psychically and release it."

"How the fuck do I do that?"

"Scorpius," his father chided.

"This is useless. Telling me I'm responsible and I need to psychically cut something that isn't there. Is she going to get rid of this thing or not?"

"She is saying not," Draco said sharply.

"Mandrake root will form her in your eyes," the woman said, turning away.

"You said she was unformed," Draco said with supreme patience.

"She is, but you will see what she is."

"I don't care about form. I want it gone."

"Patients. A spirit will relent once it has what it seeks."

Scorpius wanted to scream his frustration.

"Is there anything else you can tell us," Draco said.

"These things do resolve themselves," she said. "In time. Sometimes there is a price, and for you," she turned to Scorpius, "it is time to pay."

He only glowered at her. She'd been no use at all and he didn't follow her out when she left, instead stayed in the room. "This isn't over," he said into thin air. "I will find someone to destroy you, you dead bitch." There had to be someone else, someone stronger. Unfortunately, even Scorpius knew they weren't dealing with magic. Surely there had to be some gypsy medium who dealt with this shit somewhere. He would scour the world if he had to.

-0-

It was a she, a knowledge that clicked into place. It was a she and she had died—hating him, because he had killed her. Now she wanted him to suffer. All she wanted was for him to suffer. He had killed her. The thoughts were still too fuzzy in her head. Nothing formed, but she knew the truth of what the woman had said. He had killed her and she wanted vengeance—needed vengeance.

She watched as he left, waited patiently for his returned. She could feel him. The link between them was like a shimmering mist and it stretched as he walked away. Traveling along it was simple, but she waited for him here. Weakness still burned through her form. Hurting him helped feed her, scratching him gave her a jolt of energy.

He'd killed her. The thoughts echoed around her, and she knew there was something there behind the fog—something harsh and cold, and he was the reason. She wanted to claw her fingers into his body and rip him apart. She would find every way possible of hurting him.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

With a heavy hand, Scorpius crushed the mandrake root, then tumbling it into the boiling water for it to steep, release its essence. He might not have any idea of how to get rid of this ghost, but if he could see her, that was a step closer.

Letting the potion boil down, he sat down and looked out the glass of their enclosed garden conservatory. Rain rapped on the glass over his head and streamed down the side, obscuring any vision of the outside world. She was definitely not there, the chill exclusively from the inclement weather outside. The rain felt like a barrier between him and the rest of the world, or perhaps it was the ghost haunting him that left him feeling so abstract.

Even though he couldn't see her yet, he knew in his heart it was that girl from the resistance cell they'd eradicated a couple of weeks back. He felt it in his bones. He didn't even know her name. But somehow she'd wheedled her way into his life, and he now had to find some way of getting her out.

A chime went when the potion was ready and he rose, returning to see that the liquid had boiled down, still bubbling hard. The bubbles died down immediately as he took it off the fire and set it down to cool. It was probably a little too hot when he drank it down, but he didn't care.

As he walked back to his apartments, he didn't feel any different, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The chill hit him immediately as he walked through the door, seeping through his clothes, licking along his skin. Scorpius gritted his teeth and looked around, but saw nothing. He could have screamed with frustration, but instead closed his eyes and let his anger flow through him.

His clothes smelled of the brewing he'd just done—for nothing apparently. Why did this have to happen? This wasn't supposed to happen. When people died, they should just accept that they were dead, bested as in this case. That was how things worked—the strong prevailed, the weak faded away to nothing. Except this girl refused to fade—for now.

Talking his jacket off, he walked into the bathroom and ran the shower. He didn't want this smell hanging around him all day, taunting him with how the simple potion didn't work. He couldn't understand why. It really was a simple potion, but nothing worked right when it came to this girl.

-0-

The streaming water was hot when he stepped in and he let it soak through him, warm him. He'd never appreciated hot showers more than when he couldn't escape this pervasive cold. They really were his life savior, undoing the nastiness this stupid girl was trying to heap on him.

The whole bathroom steamed and Scorpius turned his mind to what he was going to do with himself for the rest of the day. It might be time to get out of the house and have a bit of fun. Maybe get laid. This whole thing had been one giant distraction.

Turning, he startled at the sight of a face in the steam, a blue, cold face with cloudy, jelly like eyes. His breath stopped and retreated into the warm stray, as if it offered him protection. Once over the shock and the adrenalin pumping wildly in his veins, he could see her, as she were wherever she lay, decaying. At least there wasn't any smell, because by the state of her, she'd be rank. Her hair lay lackluster around her face, which was contorted a bit, turning her from beautiful to something disgusting.

"And there you are," he said, making his voice as steady and aggressive as he could, controlling the adrenalin flowing through his blood. "Not much to look at."

She didn't say anything, just stared with her awful, unseeing eyes. Then she faded. He wasn't sure why, but he was glad. There was nothing pleasant about seeing her face, standing there on the other side of the glass door, almost close enough to touch if not for the barrier between them. He'd be a hell of a lot more creeped out if she's appeared on this side of the glass door.

Maybe making that potion wasn't a good thing. And now he didn't know whether she had disappeared or if the potion had stopped working. Not that he cared. He knew it was her now, and he needed to find out who the hell she was.

The coldness was still there when he got out of the shower, but he couldn't see her as his eyes darted around the room. He dressed quickly and efficiently before walking out, continuing down to the cells deep in the bowls of the mansion. The décor turned from sumptuous to cold and bare, hard, cold stone. Down here it felt more like his apartments—pervasive cold and unrelenting despair.

"Mr. Malfoy," Shallow said, standing from his small desk. "How can I help you?"

"I need to see one of the prisoners."

"Of course, sir," the man said, picking his key ring off the desk. "Any in particular?"

"Mr. Sherry, I think," Scorpius said, standing still as the man unlock the first gate. These cells were medieval in origin and not much had changed, including the heavy iron gates. The noise of the locking mechanism grinding echoed off the walls.

They walked along a row of cells, their inhabitants hidden in the shadows, until Shallow stopped in front of one. "Visitor," he called out loudly into what looked like an empty cell until Scorpius' eyes adjusted and he noticed a figure huddled in the back corner. The man didn't move or say anything.

"Your co-operation would be appreciated," Scorpius said.

"Fuck you," the figure said, the voice little more than a croak.

Both Scorpius and the man knew that he always provided information when pressed. Sooner or later, everyone talked.

"There was a girl in the Montmatre cell. A blond girl, pretty."

"Who, Lucy?" the man said before lower his face into his knees. Alright, normally it took more than this to get an answer out of the man. He'd obviously reacted before thinking. "Don't you touch her, you bastard," the man spat, disdain flowing through his voice.

"She's dead," Scorpius said non-chalantly. He felt a twinge of guilt seeing the man's sorrowful expression. A peeping noise could be heard from the man as he apparently cried. "If it makes you feel better, she'd haunting me."

The man stopped and snorted. "Serves you right, you cold bastard," he said with hateful tones. The hate didn't bother Scorpius in the least, but he did react more, unwillingly, to the sorrow the man expressed. "She never did take no for an answer," the man said, more to himself that to Scorpius. "I hope she makes your life unbearable. You deserve it and so much worse."

"What's her surname?"

"Like I would tell you."

Scorpius brought out his wand and shot a Cruciatus curse at the man, who howled with pain. "Wallis," he finally said.

"Her name was Wallis. Was she British?"

The man refused to answer and Scorpius went to brandish his wand again. "Yes," he shouted, the disappointment in himself evident. He shouldn't be. They all break in the end. Lucy Wallis, was her name. And apparently she was strong willed. "I want to know where she lived."

The man's lips tightened. Apparently he was going to fight this one.

-0-

Five dusty flights of steps and Scorpius stood outside the door to Lucy Wallis' room. The name seemed to fit and she had immediately become Lucy in his mind, instead of the horrid creature that stalked him from the dank, cold beyond.

If there was one thing Draco had thought him, it was to know your enemy and inside this door was her lair. Where she kept her treasures and became the person she never showed anyone.

The lock gave without much trying and swung open with a creak. The dusty, unmaintained stairway gave to a room that was well cleaned and ordered. The sun shown into a small window and framed by small curtains held back by ribbons. This would have once been a servant's room, part of a large household that had now been converted into a series of tiny apartments. Muggles didn't live in style anymore like they used to, with servants, leisurely lives and country houses.

There was a small rug in the middle of the room and a single bed along the far wall. A desk and drawer constituted the other furniture and a bookcase ran along one of the walls, covered with books in French and English.

There was a half written letter on the desk. Who wrote letters these days? Apparently, Lucy was into a bit of nostalgia, even her clothes had been old-fashioned now that he through back on it. He walked to her wardrobe. Her clothes were cheap and tatty as if she got them second hand, but from what he could recall, she had the body that would make anything look good. Her shoes were mostly practical, but there was one pair of rounded toe cream colored heels with scarlet embellishments scalloped around them. These shoes told about her; they were her ambition.

The books varied by topic and the dresser mirror was lined with photos of smiling people Scorpius had never seen. He still didn't understand why she would do this—destroy herself for some stupid ideal. Her death was the only possible outcome, and from her reading material, he doubted she was too stupid to realize that. She had done this knowing it would probably kill her. So why was she objecting to the outcome now?

The room smelled like her. He hadn't quite known that before, but he could smell her presence now—sweet and florid, and alive, so unlike the presence he experienced in his apartments. The creature he'd seen this morning in the steam was nothing like the creature who'd lived here. This room was bright and hopeful, filled with bare feminine charm. The bed even had a soft toy on it, a white unicorn that looked like it had been with her for years.

This was her fault. She shouldn't have been there; she'd forced his hand. The room warped into something that felt nauseating. And no one had come to clear it away. Perhaps the living didn't know she was dead, or maybe the people who cared for her were all perished now. He didn't want to think about it anymore—this room, apparently waiting for its occupant to return, resume their life here. It wasn't going to happen. Sooner or later, someone would notice the rent wasn't being paid and come clear her life away.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

She felt him return, felt the moment he entered the premises. When he was gone, she closed her eyes and for a while she didn't exist. Now he was back and she filled with fire. She waited but he didn't come. Fury burned in her veins and she didn't want to wait anymore. Closing her eyes, she sought him, pulled herself where she felt his essence.

"She's here," he said as she opened her eyes, standing in a dark room with a dark, wooden desk that gleamed with polish. The fire crackled in the grate, but she felt nothing emanating from the flames. Looking around she saw the other one there too.

"I can feel her," the cold one said as he sat behind his desk.

They said nothing for a while, as if she was disturbing a conversation.

"I know who she is now," the hated one said.

"Scorpius," the cold one started. That was his name, Scorpius. An awful, hated name for an awful man. "I don't know if getting into that is a good idea."

"Why, she'd pried her way into my life; I am going to return the favor. Lucy Wallis," he said loudly. "A sweet girl, by all accounts, with equally sweet family and friends," he said pointedly.

Fury boiled over and she rushed forward, reaching through his clothes and raking her nails down his back. He hissed and arched. A change of energy rolled up her arm. Hurting him changed her. She looked down at her fingers, seeing small smears of blood. Maybe it was the blood that fed her.

"I swear to whatever will listen, I will destroy you and everything you ever loved," he said through clenched teeth.

"Scorpius," the cold one said calmly. "Sometimes I wonder if you are trying to provoke her. Are you seeking to go to war, are you? Tear this house apart fighting with a ghost?"

"I'm going to beat her into nothing."

"Yes, well, you already tried that. And apparently she is the one that can hurt you, not the other way around."

"I will find a way. I just need to find the right leverage point. Everyone has a price—even this bitch."

She swiped again across his cheek and angry red welts ran down his cheek. Again energy flowed up her arm, filling her with lightness.

"Unless you calm, she is going to rip you to bits before you even have a chance. Upsetting her seems to make her lash out. We'll find a way to deal with this, but perhaps you could in the meantime act with some circumspection."

Scorpius' lips tightened and he turned sharply to the door, marching out. The cold one watched after him for a moment then returned his attention to some papers on his desk.

-0-

"Your parlor tricks are a mere nuisance," the hated one said when she appeared in his apartments, where he stood by the mirror in the bathroom, spreading ointment on the angry stripes down his pale cheek. His shirt was off and she could see the welts along his pale back. "Careful what you do. I will naturally return anything you inflict on me tenfold, Lucy Wallis."

The name meant nothing to her. It connected with nothing in her mind. All she was was hatred.

"You're disgusting," he said, eyeing her through the mirror. "You're revolting to look at." His mouth screwed up in disgust. It was supposed to mean something to her, but it didn't.

Lucy. She had a name. That was who she had been. A girl who had lived—a life he had destroyed. She was exacting punishment, she realized. Haunting him for what he'd done. The details on how he'd killed her were absent from her mind, but she knew he had.

"Know what this is?" he said, drawing a book from inside his jacket. His eyes returned to hers, searching for comprehension, a smirk on his lips. She didn't know that the book was. "This is your life written down. Your journal, and now it's mine. I wonder what little tidbits I'll find in here." He was pleased with himself.

He pushed forward, walked through her. A thickening sensation washed through her as he moved through and his barely audible groan and shiver proved he felt it too. Clearly not a comfortable sensation.

Taking his jacket off, he threw it on a chair and sat down by the fire, opening the journal. "Let's see what we find. Oh, you lived in Grimsby, charming place," he said sarcastically. "With your mother. Certainly not from a family I've ever heard off."

His attention returned to the journal. She'd had a mother. The idea hadn't occurred to her before. The hated one, Scorpius, was doing this to find something to hurt her with. Which wouldn't work. She felt nothing and even the idea of a mother meant nothing.

Darkness had fallen and the twinkle of lights started. Frost crept up the windows as she moved near, while Scorpius sat as close to the fire as he could get. He was asleep when she turned her attention back, unknowing how long she had been staring at the lights. She had no concept of time. Time didn't exist. It was just him and now he was entrapped in his dreams.

Staring at him, she wished she could get in there and wreak havoc, tear his dreams apart. Maybe she would have more mobility in there, an ability to voice her rage. She moved forward, but her fingers slipped into his head like mist, unable to get a grip. She could scratch along his skin, but nothing more. She wasn't even sure how that work. Anger seemed to be required.

She scratched along his neck but he didn't wake. Apparently very little woke him when he was asleep. A guilty conscious certainly wasn't keeping him awake. A tiny drop of blood sat on her nail then sank into her skin. Energy flowed; she could feel it inside her. His blood fed her in some way, more than the bond between them, the shimmery one she could at time see.

Lucy stared at the journal for a while. Her life was written in there. A life she didn't remember and didn't care about. It wasn't important now, who she had been. There was no future there, just a past that was now dead.

His blood gave her strength. The thought bounced around her mind, as if trying to tell her something important. Her mind was so slow, burdened by mist and death. Blood made her stronger.

He still sat there, with his head back on the headrest, eyes closed. Curves of dark lashes fanned out across otherwise pale cheeks. Her eyes moved lower to his pale neck. The blood strengthened her and she could have more of it.

Placing her knees at his sides, she sat down and lowered her hand to the side of his neck where her scratch was, tiny droplets of blood having formed in her wake. Her nails scraped along the wound again and blood welled. He groaned in his sleep, feeling the pain reverberate through to his dreams. Good. Lowering her lips, she tasted the blood on her tongue, strength flowing into her. It was the first and only sensation of taste she could recall. She tasted his blood, rich and metallic. Teeth firmed and she bit down and his blood gushed into her mouth, tasting like life and sun. Taste. A minute ago, she hadn't realized it existed. Now every cell in her body absorbed it as his eyes flew open. Hands grasped for her, but desperately moved through her.

"Get off me," he yelled, finally forcing himself up and through her. The blood inside her turned painful, transforming her in some way. "You bit me," he accused, his hand on the wound in his neck. He rushed to the bathroom to tend the damage.

Pain and fierce tension filled every part of her. The power of it zinged through her mind and ears. Holding her hand out, she thought it looked more solid. Not solid like a person, like he was. She was still dead, a ghost. Just stronger now.

"You horrid bitch," he accused, coming out of the bathroom with a white towel pressed to his throat. "You fucking bit me."

She turned on the couch toward him. "Serves you right," she said.

He froze where he was, staring at her. Thin bands of blood ran down his chest. That blood made her stronger. Unfortunately she didn't want more.

"And now you speak," he said. She hadn't noticed that she had, but he had obviously heard her. His eyes pierced her and he shook his head. "I will find a way to destroy you."

"We'll just see who manages first," she said. They apparently had the same goal. "That man is right. I have the distinct advantage in that I can hurt you and you can't do anything to me. Your blood makes me strong and I am going to drain every drop from you," she hissed.

He just stood there for a moment, trying to think of something to do. She could theoretically chase him around until she'd drained every drop, except she didn't think she could take anymore. There seemed to be a point where she'd had as much as she could take. It hadn't exactly been a hunger, but a need for energy and now her body sang with it. Her mind was clearer and she felt more cognizant with her surroundings, even him. Still standing there, she looked into his eyes and he stared back. Her nemesis. The hated one. She would destroy him, hopefully before he managed to find a way of destroying her. Either way, one of them would destroy the other.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The marks where she'd bit him had healed. He got the blood connection, just sorry that it had to be him blood and that she was there at all. What the fuck did she want?

Another interesting thing to note was that the iciness had disappeared after her little bloodletting, as if she was a little closer to life with his blood absorbed into her. She was still one big, grave-ly drag, sulking in the corner of the room, staring at him with her empty eyes. Her face was a little more coherent now, his blood having sharpened her a bit. This could not be a good development. He wanted her gone, not more clearly here.

But then he didn't really have a way of preventing her. He couldn't stop her, couldn't grab her or shove her away. Like a pinned insect, he was at her mercy, a feeling he was completely unaccustomed to.

He had to find some leverage and he knew it was in that journal. The production of it didn't have the effect he wanted. There had been no shocked indignity and pleading. It was like she didn't care.

Returning to the bedroom, he enjoyed that the iciness was gone. He doubted it was something she had control over, doubted she was remotely amenable to making his comfort a priority. He grabbed the journal and sat down on the bed, leaning back on the headboard. She was still floating over in one of the corner, watching him. If she was trying to unnerve him by always watching, he refused to let it get to him. What did he care if she floated there sulkily? Soon he would have something, something to threaten until she relented. There was always a pressure point, it was just a matter of finding it.

Her handwriting was almost flowery, with large loops, initially writing about a friend who had just come back from a trip. This was so mundane, he yawned. Maybe he could get someone else to read through this dribble, but on second thought, he didn't trust anyone else to find the really unique and powerful opportunities for inflicting duress. This was something he had to do himself, maybe at a stretch feeling a bit responsible for his own predicament, like he's had some weakness that had drawn her to him. It had to be sorted. No weakness was tolerated.

Apparently her friend had been to New York, where they had walked around the shops and had a drink at a really expensive bar, ice-skated at the Rockefeller center, which was too crowded to really be fun. Scorpius could have told them that, not that he would ever consider doing something pointless like going ice-skating. Lucy was jealous, listening intently to these stories, knowing she couldn't afford such a trip, probably ever. Mum only worked twenty hours a week and the money just stretched to keep them in food.

Putting the notebook down, Scorpius rang for some breakfast to be brought up. "How'd you end up involved with a cell?" he asked her form, which just stared endlessly.

She didn't answer, didn't even indicate that she'd heard anything. Maybe she was nothing more than a non-corporeal zombie, wanting nothing more than blood. But then she didn't want it now. She hadn't made an attempt at taking more. She just stared. "God, you're ugly," he said and returned his attention to the journal.

There was some boy named Harquin, who had taken her out, kissed her in some tea shop. Lucy went on about this kiss. How old was she, he suddenly wondered, closing his eyes and wondering how he would tolerate reading a whole journal full of this dribble.

Harquin this, Harquin that, it was nauseating. Until he'd fucked her in a graveyard. Obviously she'd used prettier words, but Scorpius laughed. "So you let some guy tupp you in a graveyard. Spread your milky thighs on top of some sarcophagus." He stared at her, wondering if he saw some hint of reaction in her dead eyes. "So disrespectful," he chided with a grin. "Wouldn't have thought you had it in you."

Turning on his side, away from her, he read on, about how Harquin asked her out again, took her to lunch in the winter gardens. How his hair shone in the sun and how she'd get lost in his soulful eyes. She loved him, she wrote, how she expected they would have a future together. It was all nauseating, but Scorpius wondered if this might be his ticket, this boy that had deflowered her and then taken her for walks in a park. How completely inane. Even a weekend in some little village in Scotland.

"You remember that weekend in Scotland?" he said, turning back to her, his hand holding his head up. "Says here you never left the room. Must have fucked you every way possible."

Scorpius had spent the weekend in a girl's bed, but never with such intensity and compulsion that Lucy had obviously felt for this guy. Maybe it had all been her, reading things that weren't there. "Did he love you?" he asked, staring at her milky eyes. "That boy, did he love you?"

She didn't answer, just stared. "Fuck you're boring. If you're going to haunt me, at least do something."

She charged and slashed, and Scorpius was too tangled in the sheets to get away, but it didn't burn this time. "Ha," he said. "Seems that with my blood inside you, you can't hurt me anymore. Guess you let go of that little trick too soon. What a shame."

She moved over across the room to the fire. He could still see the flames through her dress and legs. Something fell of the side of the mantle, crashing into the floor.

"And what have we got here?" he said, raising himself up against the headboard again and crossing his arms. "Did you do that? What are you going to do, break all my things?" he teased.

"Hurt you," she said, her voice sounding distant and flat.

"So you do speak. As for hurting me, you're not really doing much of a job. Meanwhile, I'm reading all about the boy you spread your legs for. Harquin. Ring a bell?" He wasn't entirely sure, but she suspected a frown tightened her brow. "Harquin of the lovely, gentle body and I'm sure tiny, but perfectly adequate cock. With your experience, you would hardly know, would you? How does it feel, knowing you will never fuck again?" He smiled, but got nothing in return. "You're no fun."

He returned to the journal. Lucy had a pregnancy scare. "Really were you stupid enough not to even know how to protect yourself? Where the hell did you grow up, some backwater community where everyone's related?"

"London," she said.

"And still so clueless? Maybe it's you. Which is probably how you were stupid enough to get involved with this cell. You fell into it, believed all the bullshit they told you, and got yourself killed."

"You killed me."

"No, you got yourself killed," he said fiercely. "The conclusion was inevitable."

She was really staring daggers at him now. "Do you always blame your victims?"

"When they are stupid enough to deserve it, yes." He kept staring back at her. If she thought he felt a modicum of guilt over her death, she was sorely mistaken. If guilt was her weapon, she would find it impotent.

With a snort, he returned his attention to the 'lovely' Harquin, who gave her a pendant for Christmas, a red little heart set in silver. It opened and she'd put a tiny picture of him inside it.

"He gave you a necklace. How sweet. Totally pedestrian, but you seem to be into that shit. Where it is now? You apartment? Bet you'd cry if I destroyed that necklace."

The frown returned. He was certainly getting to her. Not enough to irrationally attack. As an opponent, even dead, she wore her thoughts on her sleeve. It was like taking candy from a baby. "Can ghosts even cry?" he asked, curious.

He continued reading and an elf soon appeared with his breakfast. "Master Draco wants a word with you," the elf said before bowing and disappearing. Scorpius groaned. This could only mean that they needed to go out that day, wreak some having on people getting above themselves.

"Hear that," Scorpius said. "That's how it's done. Time to go enforce the rules. Break the rules and bad things happen. Didn't your mother ever teach you anything?"

"Didn't yours?"

Scorpius' thought immediately clouded over. His mother had been a miserable woman, increasingly a shadow of herself, never thriving in this household. "She wasn't strong enough," he said with contempt.

"To take the evil you were becoming?"

Scorpius snorted at the statement and the implication that it was him that had made his mother flounder and weaken. "There is no such thing as evil, only strength," he said, the mantra he had lived by all his life.

"Yet, you do evil every day. I met with evil and I died. Maybe that is what you are, no more than an unfortunate accident that happens to people, that happened to me."

"You certainly _are_ getting lippy. I much preferred it when you stared like some dumb, dead zombie. If either of us needs to get to terms with what we are, it's you. You don't belong here. You played the game and you lost."

"It isn't a game. It is people's lives and families you are toying with, causing misery in your wake. The worst thing that has ever happened. You mother knew this and she couldn't bear to look at you."

"The weak never can," he said sharply, uncomfortable at discussing the embarrassment that was his mother. He hadn't seen her since she had been taken away, confined to an institution where her patheticness was conveniently hidden way.

"How can you be anything but evil? You can't even love your mother."

Scorpius stared tightlipped as the accusation flowed from her cold, dead lips. He couldn't argue it. He didn't loved her, had quelled any affinity for the woman who had given him birth. Unwillingly, he had to concede that the dead bitch might have a point. It wasn't normal to feel such lack of anything toward his mother. He did respect his father, but he wasn't sure if it could stretch as far as love. "Love is an illusions the weak tell themselves give their lives meaning."

"Maybe I have just as much meaning as your life," she said, floating over to the window. He tried to snort it away, but the indelible feeling that he was missing something important asserted itself. If he was honest with himself, he would admit it wasn't a new feeling, just one he very successfully ignored as some lingering human frailty, a reflection of youth and unformed consistency.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Scorpius sat in a café not far away from the mansion, one that looked out over the Seine, which flowed past, dark and sulky, like her. It was nice to be alone and anonymous in a crowd. People mingled, chatted and whispered around him, oblivious to someone different being in their midst—someone dangerous. He could so easily turn this little scene to havoc, destroy everything and everyone here.

The accusation that he was evil returned to his mind—vacant, empty, meaningless evil. If anyone was vacant, empty and meaningless, it was her. Her journal sat in his pocket. She could move things now and might destroy it if he left it behind. It was leverage he wasn't ready to give up.

Looking around the café, he sighed, now hating that he was alone. It wasn't normally something that bothered him and he could seek out his friends, but he felt distant. Who would understand the problems of a ghost haunting him, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to pretend it hadn't happened.

Pulling out the journal, he opened it. Lucy was introducing Harquin to her mother, having invited him over for dinner at their house, where they ate in the kitchen. He'd brought a bottle of wine and flower, and he'd been nervous.

Scorpius could imagine the small house she'd lived in, carbon copy of all the houses down their street—probably somewhere where they knew their neighbors. Likely the mother was still alive, but the thought of it sent uncomfortable feelings down his spine. Mothers were troublesome—even Draco didn't like dealing with mothers.

Maybe mothers highlighted a certain level of evil in their acts, he admitted, the way they saw only the incomprehensible in what had happened. There was no efficacy with mothers—fear didn't rule them in the aftermath, no comprehension that this was a consequence what they had set in motion and that they were ultimately responsible. This made mother unerringly erratic. They would never concede or understand that this was for the best, a necessary outcome for the general good. That was the thing people like Lucy refused to understand, this was all for the broader good, the stability of their community. It was paramount.

Then there was his own mother, stuck in a sanitarium somewhere, where she embraced the peace of the exclusive and gilded home with extensive gardens and lake views. She was happy there, away from them. Would she view his demise as incomprehensible or would she secretly be relieved. She was weak, it didn't matter what she thought, he reaffirmed angrily. This was not a world where the weak prospered, and that was the way things were.

But then there had been quite a few developments over the last few days, least of all was her taking blood from him—and it seemed to change her. He needed to find out more about this if he sought to understand what kept her there. The blood seemed to have consolidated her, which was in the opposite direction of what she wanted.

That Indian woman seemed to know about the link between them; he should have asked her when she was there, but the look and smell of her had put him off as she stood in their mansion in her torn woolen sweater and muddy shoes. He should have looked past that and queried her about the bond she spoke of. He still needed to know, now more than ever.

-0-

The icy wind whipped at his clothes when he apparated to the entrance of the woman's cave, which was in the most desolate backwaters in Iceland. Why the hell would anyone choose to live here, he wondered, angry that he had to trek out here to find her. His fingers froze and his clothes was no barrier to the iciness in the wind. For a witch who could choose to live anywhere, this was an incomprehensible choice. Maybe it was just women who were incomprehensible in general.

A twig broke as he walked into the entrance of the cave, getting enveloped in the acrid smell of smoke. Candles lit the space which has cluttered corner and a fire in the middle, set in a ring of bricks. An old picnic chair sat empty by the fire.

"Young Master Malfoy," she said in her thin voice. He heard her before she saw here, and then she appeared in a stained pink cardigan with only two buttons done, over a thin floral dress. She was woefully underdressed for the cold, but it didn't seem to bother her—which told him in no uncertain terms that she was more than the harmless, old lady she appeared to be.

"I have some more questions."

"I knew you would come before long."

"She drinks from me," he said.

"Then she is growing stronger."

"And weaker. She can't hurt me now."

The woman smiled in the way adults do to children who wouldn't understand. Anger seeped into his blood, and not just for the fact that he had to traipse all the way out here in the middle of fucking nowhere. He bit the anger down and smiled patiently. While he might not appreciate her fashion sense or personal hygiene, he wasn't stupid enough to goad this woman, or even turn his back on her.

"Oh, she can hurt you, she just hasn't figured out how yet."

"How?" he demanded, intently wanting to know.

"She can rip you apart from the inside. But then she might never discover this."

"How do I get rid of her? You said there was a bond."

"Yes, but it comes from her side. You cannot sever it, only she can. It sits in here," she said, pointing at his chest. "I can see it even now."

Scorpius felt disconcerted knowing there was a bond, metaphysical in the least. None of this was helping him and he felt his anger flare again. Why could no one be useful and actually help? Wasn't there some shaman somewhere who could wave a few sticks and this would all be over? "How do I get rid of her?" he asked, trying to control his voice.

"She must relent, when she is done, she will relent."

"And she wants me to suffer."

"Then suffer."

"This really isn't useful," he said coldly, knowing he had no leverage on her. She could probably trap him in a piece of coal from here to the end of eternity if she wanted to, but he couldn't contain his full disappointment. This was a waste of time. This woman had no answers. He turned to leave before he actually did make things difficult for himself.

"You know more about her than she does," the woman said. "She does not remember her life and that is perhaps your best avenue. If you want to loosen her rage, then make her remember."

Scorpius stared back at the woman who stood disheveled, but with a straight back in the center of what she called her home. He still couldn't fathom why someone would choose to live here. Make her remember, he said to himself, feeling a little justified in that he had naturally started down that path. Admittedly, he'd been looking for leverage to hurt her. Fear replaced rage, but he suspected that wasn't what the woman was referring to. He wasn't entirely convinced. If he threatened that boy, Harquin, she might just sever the bond to protect him.

"Make her see her life," the woman called after him as he walked out.

He heard her grumble as he left the cave, but he didn't care that the old bat thought of him. The wind whipped against his exposed face, little particles of ice stinging his cheeks and making his eyes water. He stood for a moment longer than he needed to, wondering about this bond between him and his ghost. It was there now, even as he was so far away. It made him wonder where she was. The bond signified that she existed somewhere, even out of sight, a thousand miles away.

-0-

He found her in his room when he got back to Paris, still feeling frozen to the bone. She was floating by the fire. He almost wanted her to know what he suffered to deal with her.

"Nothing will make you warm again," he said to her slightly see through head.

"Your blood does."

So she needed blood again. If he wasn't so frozen, he would probably notice is it was chillier in here than usual. "Getting peckish are you—eager to get nice and close?" He smiled and threw off his jacket. "Such an intimate thing, taking blood." Truthfully, he wasn't quite sure why he was teasing her about it. It just felt right. All her rage and hate, and she needed him, in the most intimate of embraces, and Lucy veered on the prudish side in life. Or maybe it just was to him, because he had never let anyone take blood from him, let anyone inside his body in any way. Sex required some level of intimacy, but it could certainly be done with only regard to mere physical urges. "You can do it in the shower when I'm naked, if you want."

Her complete stillness made him wonder if he was tapping into a bashful streak, or maybe there wasn't enough humanity in her to be bashful. He didn't stick around to wonder, being too frozen to really care. A hot shower was more needed than any concern over her and her surprisingly sharp teeth.

The hot water pelted the floor in the shower as he undressed, and she hadn't followed him into the bathroom. Staying away from him entirely and he warmed himself in the water. But she would need to feed from him at some point; he felt the chill more keenly now as he stepped out into his apartments again. Her form was still floating by the fire, and she didn't move when the elves brought him his dinner, which he ate with gusto.

Not entirely sure why, but he felt better. There was a semblance of a plan, to make her remember. "You took that boy to dinner with your mother, remember. You wrote about it in your journal. What did you serve? Did you cook for him? Lovingly prepare a meal?"

She didn't respond or move, but he knew she wasn't completely indifferent. He could annoy her into attacking him, which would probably hurt now that she was in need of feeding. The old woman had said she had the ability to rip him apart, and perhaps he should be wary of annoying her to the point of attacking, but he couldn't help it. Everything in him wanted to needle her.

"Did he stay over that night, fuck you in your mother's house?" he grinned as he took a spoonful of crème caramel. "Bet you never ate anything as good as this. It just melts in your mouth. You remember food, don't you? Warm, filling food. Another thing you'll never have."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

It was the middle of the night when she came to him, her touch icy. It sent a shiver through his entire body and Scorpius' initial reaction was to fight, his heart racing, but he forced himself to calm. Feeding her was worth it; it removed her claws and also kept the chill out of the air. In some sense, it was pathetic that he was feeding a vengeful spirit just to keep his apartments comfortable, but Lucius had always tried to teach him to pick his battles.

Iciness moved near him as he lay on the bed, floating closer. He'd know this was coming; it just felt more confrontational being dragged out of sleep for it—but then, were there any cordial ways of doing this?

He closed his eyes and felt her move above him. There was no currents of wind with her movement, just cold as she crept closer, her mouth honing in on his neck. Her bite wasn't as painful as the anticipation made it, but she took her time. What was she thinking in this moment, approaching the hated enemy for nourishment? Was this animalistic, depravedly blood seeking? Did she resent that she was dependent on him for her … existence?

The bite made him gasp as the sting came, spreading iciness into his flesh, but he didn't fight—perhaps out of curiosity more than anything. He felt her lips—felt them warm as his blood started flowing into her mouth. The iciness receded immediately and now he felt her, leaning over him, straddling him thighs, her body along his as she fed. He felt her lips and her tongue to his tender injury. She was warm; she felt solid. Her hand was on his upper arm, clasping him to her, and the tips of her breasts lightly rubbed across his bare chest.

Reaching out, he placed a hand on her thigh where she straddled him and her flesh felt warm and solid. It was like she was really there. Unbid, heat rushed down his body, making him tighten. She didn't seem to notice his touch, or mind if she did. As much as she hated him, he couldn't imagine her wanting him to touch her. Maybe she didn't feel it—but he did.

Her hair lay by his cheek and he felt an urge to draw her scent in, but there was none. He could feel her, but he couldn't smell her. In a way, he felt cheated, stuck in what can only be described as an intimate embrace, but robbed of the scent of her. It wasn't even something he'd known he sought until this moment. Perhaps an unconscious desire, like taste. He couldn't taste her either, not that he tried, but the urge was there, sitting deep in his brain. Perhaps it was just the intimacy of the act, drawing out his instincts to taste and touch.

His hand stayed on her thigh, feeling her smooth skin, before running up to her side. The material of her dress slid under his hand, over the firmness of her body, which was a mere inch above his. He felt her warmth radiating to his body, but not the weight of her coming down on him.

Then she released her bite and her form faded under his hand. He didn't feel her warmth either, but the ambient temperature of the room had lifted, as if her rage had sated—even if he knew that wasn't true.

"You were solid," he said in rush. Searching for her, he found her form in a corner of the room, looking more solid, but still milky white. "When you were feeding, you were solid. I could feel you."

She gave him a dismissive look, which would have pissed him off if it wasn't for that fact that he was still getting over the feeling her up part. His fingers still vibrated with the touch.

Getting out of bed, he walked toward her. She didn't move, only stared at him with the familiar hatred on her eyes. His fingers slipped through her waist like it wasn't there. No remnants of her solid state remained now. "Did you feel me touch you?"

She only stared at him, which made him wonder if she had. "Did you feel me?" he repeated more firmly.

"Not that I recall," she finally said. Her voice wasn't quite as distant as when she was icy.

"I bring you closer to life," he said. Suddenly he wondered if she could feed off others, and for some reason, he didn't want that. He wanted to be the only one who could feed her, who could make her solid, as if she existed on this plane, though his doing.

"I am not alive. I am dead."

"But feeding makes you more than just the blood itself." He wondered what that meant. For a moment, he wanted to do it again, just to see if it happened again, just out of curiosity, but she was fed now and wouldn't feed until she had grown cold again. Perhaps he could seek out the woman in Iceland to answer, but wasn't in the mood for her riddles.

If her teeth were in him, she was solid. This was an interesting development. This was a two sided issue now. She needed to be near him and when she was, he could touch her. The thought that he could hurt her crept through his mind, but he knew full well that hurting her had not be the prevalent instinct in the heat of the moment.

He also wasn't sure she had been truthful when she'd said she didn't feel it. Everyone knew that for most parasitic creatures, taking blood was pleasurable. "What does it feel like, sinking your teeth into me?" He'd felt her tongue lapping at his neck, her grip on his arm.

She floated backward, into a wall. "Coward," he said with a grin. "Running away when we were having such an interesting discussion."

With a smile, he returned to his bed and saw two drops of blood on the white sheet, looking black in the darkness of the room. Just like a virgin, he though with a snort. The bite of his neck was warm and stinging as he lay down and closed his eyes, feeling energy running through his blood—energy she needed, energy the feeding had created.

-0-

The sun was bright when he woke. His neck still ached and his fingers felt the tender wounds. Immediately he sought her out, but couldn't see her in the bright sunlight in the room. Instinctively, he knew she was there. He could feel her—fed and contented.

Leaning back on the headboard, he placed his arm behind his head. "Well, that was an interesting development last night," he said. "So fully feeling you straddling me, solid and firm. Some would go so far as to say I was ravished last night." He grinned, unable to see her, but instinctively feeling her bristle. He remembered the feeling of her breasts rubbing against his chest, and he really did feel a bit ravished by the experience—a state he never expected this whole debacle to turn out.

"Hello, darling," he heard brightly from the door. "Thinking of me?"

"Claudine?" Scorpius said, almost choking on the words. "What are you doing here?"

Claudine walked into the room and sat down on the rumpled bed. "I love seeing you like this." She wore a duck blue short dress with white sleeves. She almost looked girlish, and his skin bristled when she reached out for his bare chest. He moved off the bed, suddenly feeling self-conscious—not that he could really manage feeling self-conscious, less alone guilty that he'd been having dirty thoughts about the vengeful spirit tormenting him—but the tormenting part had become infinitely more interesting last night. "I've hardly seen you lately. You've been hiding away at home for weeks. I am starting to feel neglected."

Striding over to the wardrobe, he dressed quickly, knowing she was in full pout mode behind him. Claudine bursting into his apartments usually annoyed him, but right now he hated it, because there was someone else watching this.

Pulling on his black jacket, he turned, to his shock finding Claudine naked across his bed. Mortification ran up him, partially because he really didn't want to touch her, and more, he didn't want to do it with Lucy watching.

"I'll take you out to breakfast," he said, watching her mouth tighten. "I am ravished." His cheeks even managed to blush at the statement, which was highly unusual, but he really was extremely hungry. Must be the blood loss.

He knew she should go over and make it better as Claudine dressed, but he just couldn't, reticent to show any intimacy in front of the silently watching eyes that Claudine couldn't see. Maybe he would explain to her that his apartments weren't exactly private at the moment, but then he couldn't bare being intimate with Claudine anywhere else at the moment either.

"It has been a very stressful time," he said as Claudine joined him at the door. He knew she was confused and embarrassed, but there wasn't much he could bring himself to do to rectify that at the moment. He would get her some jewelry. That would quell her concerns quick enough. Claudine had no expectations he was loyal, but they hadn't really been in a position when he'd denied her, and that was creating worry across her brow. "It is a trying time, and I need you to just let me deal with this."

She looked a little mollified and with a tight smile, she took the crook of his arm as he led her downstairs. He still didn't relish the touch, but this was a reaction he would have to get over. Likely it was a fleeting issue that would pass once this thing was all sorted.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter

Scorpius felt pensive the next morning, unsure how he felt. There was an awkwardness that had stolen into his life the minute Claudine had walked in, as if the future he had been meant for sat more uneasily. He'd never questioned the expectations of him and the arrangement that had been made with Claudine's family. There had never been any issues with them sleeping together when the mood struck, but he wasn't an exhibitionist who'd want to show 'affection' to his intended in front of an audience, even if there was a part of him that wanted to let it serve his ghost right. She had after all decided to attach herself to his life; she should be willing to then deal with her choice. And if she wanted to pry her way into his life, she could just accept that women were part of it. But there was more to his reticence than that, but he couldn't entirely put his finger on it.

He knew she was here somewhere, could feel her, even if he could only see her faintly during the daylight hours, like a shimmer. Her presence didn't disturb him now, maybe because the unknown element was gone, and he more or less expected her to be there. The inherent creepiness had alleviated now that he knew who and why. Admittedly he didn't know fully why someone so seemingly sweet-natured would become militant enough to join the resistance, then rage so profoundly she'd haunted someone after her death. There was definitely more to Lucy than met the eye—something that shifted her between the sickly sweet girl with her tedious teenage concerns, still reflected by her tiny and girly room in that Paris walk-up, the one exploring her budding love affair, to the thing that now raged and hated. There was a trajectory that led from one to the other, and she was now a puzzle he could figure out.

Picking up her journal from the nightstand, he continued reading. It was eye-rolling nauseating. Her main concern were her hopes for her and her boyfriend living together, and his studies in alchemy. There was apparently a job he wanted and their life would just be perfect if he got it.

Scorpius wanted to put it down again, because it was just dull reading this dribble. There was even a section on the painful choice between yellow or duck blue fucking bath towels.

And then he turned the page—a page warped and brittle, the writing smudged and running, dissipating in circles across the page. He couldn't make any of it out, but it wasn't uniform enough for her to have stilt something. Then it struck him: these were tears, her tears. Scorpius felt something tingle up his spine. Something had happened. Maybe perfect-boy wasn't so perfect after all.

The next page was entirely blank. The one after that started with a black pen, while the whole journal so far had been written in blue, probably some pen with pink fluff on it, he would imagine. Even her writing was more stark now.

_Mum things I should go away, seek a distraction. There is nothing that can distract from this. What is there to distract from, he's dead. A distraction isn't going to change that; nothing is going to change that—ever._

Comprehension dawned on Scorpius. Her lover-boy had been killed. He leaned back against the head board and dropped the journal down on his lap. Flicking through the pages, there was pages and pages of her lament.

"Is that why you joined the resistance? Because he was killed?" He saw her over by the window, which made her translucent to the point of invisible, but she stepped to the side of the window so he could see her more. He could see her frowning as if she looked confused. She didn't remember.

The soothsayer's words returned—'make her remember'. "Harquin, he died and you cried." The frown deepened. "Then you decided to avenge him." Scorpius could understand that; she had just taken on an enemy that was so much stronger than her and she'd lost. "Got yourself killed."

"You killed me," she said. "You killed him; you killed anyone. That is what you do. Cause suffering and despair. That is your purpose."

"No it's not," he said sharply.

"IT IS!" she screamed. The air suddenly turned freezing cold. "YOU KILLED HIM!"

The air was growing charged as if static electricity was generating. The hairs on his arms were standing. "This was in England; I wasn't even there."

"YOU KILL, YOU DESTROY. THAT IS ALL YOU ARE."

She charged him and her icy fingers came down on his chest, scraping across his skin and pain shot through him. Okay, maybe she could maim while fed. The soothsayer had said so, hadn't she, that Lucy could tear him apart.

He tried to grab her wrist, but his fingers moved straight through her. Pressure was building, he could feel it in his ears. She really was attacking him now and he had no defense. The pressure grew so high he felt his eardrums burst. This was more than she'd ever done.

Throwing his sheets off him, he ran for the door, feeling her chase up as he ran down the stairs, fleeing.

A tactical retreat he told himself as he rushed out of the house, feeling her icy fingers grip for him. He felt her give at the boundary of the house and now he stood barefoot and bare chested on the cold street, people looking at him as they walked past. Crossing his arms, he braced himself against the cold. Fuck!

Lucy had just found her claws again, and she'd learnt a new trick. She was capable of tearing him apart, he'd been told and she was now discovering her more damaging capabilities. Why did he have to be a guinea pig for this?

He couldn't stand out here all day, but like any woman, Lucy probably needed time to cool off and he had to be absent until she had. Walking in now, would just see him suffer through round two, and he still had no defences against her. Blast that damned soothsayer for not giving him anything to restrain Lucy with.

Walking up to the front door, he rang the intercom and told whoever answered to have the driver bring the car out front. Freezing cold seeped up his feet and legs as he stood waiting, people still staring at him. Fuck them, he told himself as he rubbed her hands down his bare arms.

The car came and he jumped in the back and told the man behind the wheel to drive. Their staff knew not to question their orders, so the man drove until he got further directions. Scorpius wasn't of mind to decide where to go, he just needed to be somewhere for a moment, so he turned on the heat and sat back, staring out the window.

So Lucy's lover had been killed, and he could assume that some part of it had to do with their empire. Perhaps the guy had been part of the resistance, or maybe just some innocent bystander who got caught in the cross fire. However it happened, it had motivated her to fight back.

For a moment he frowned, wondering at this devotion that would drive someone like her to revenge. Obviously vengeance was part of their game, any slight was met with brutal response, but no one in his family had never been motivated like this—like Lucy. And he'd taken on personal responsibility for this tragedy in her book. Admittedly, he had killed her.

The tears and the despair in her journal sank into his mind. Pure, irrational grief. If Claudine was killed, how would he feel? The sad truth was relief. He would feel relieved, and this was the woman he was to tie himself to for the rest of his life. He had to admit the short comings of it, but then he would never suffer the all-consuming despair like Lucy had.

Lucy had accused him of being destruction, of wreaking pain and grief wherever he went. It wasn't like that. They needed to stop fighting. They were the ones baiting a bear, then blamed it for the consequences. They knew full well what the consequences would be, so at some point they had to take responsibility.

-0-

After stopping at one of the high end stores, he went to lunch on his own at one of his typical restaurants, feeling out of sorts all day. He could call someone to join him, but he didn't. He felt a bit like an exile and he couldn't settle on anything, knowing he was a refugee from his own house. Anger should be coursing through him, but it wasn't. In truth, he wasn't entirely sure how he felt. On one hand, he needed Lucy to know and acknowledge her life, on the other, he felt … sorry that she was raging so.

Annoyed that he didn't have a watch or a phone, he had to ask the waiter for the time, wondering if it had been sufficiently long that he could go back now. But then who knew with ghosts? He didn't normally bother with angry women, except Claudine, which he had to bother with. Jewelry solved all problems, he'd found, but it certainly wouldn't be of interest to Lucy. Nothing materialistic would ever be of interest to her. She wanted something else entirely, but he couldn't really get a grip on it.

He decided it was time to bite the bullet. There was a part of him that wanted to go back there and he couldn't really understand why, but it was more than it being in his rightful place, his apartments. There was something fascinating about Lucy. Like an onion, he wanted to get to the next layer. They had come so far already, from a terrifying (if he were to admit it) entity, to a superficial person, to now a much more complex person.

Now he wanted to know what drove her to the resistance, how that happened. What had she done in the name of the resistance? Had a bit of the grubbiness of it rubbed off on her? She couldn't have been part of that and remained as pristine as the girl he'd read about in her diary. The resistance weren't filled with innocents; they were just as hardened as anyone on his team.

He really, really wanted her to be tainted by the things she had done in the name of this unrecognized war. Then she wouldn't be so completely out of reach.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

There was no way of feeding that wasn't intimate, so Lucy didn't pretend it was. His hands were on her thighs, where they seemed to want to be when she fed. His hardness jutting into the apex of her thighs wasn't deniable either, or his heavy breath expanding his chest as she fed. He enjoyed the intimacy of her feeding, his hands intermittently running up to her hips. She didn't understand why. She was taking from him and he was letting her, welcoming her. Not that he could realistically do anything about it, but he wasn't even trying now.

When she'd had enough, she rose away from his neck and his hands immediately sunk through her form and a slight frown marred his face.

"Why do you want me to take from you?" she asked, not understanding his frown as her feeding ended.

"Because it makes you warm, hence it makes me more comfortable."

His statement didn't ring true in her mind. He wasn't avoiding her, or taking himself from the house. He was staying here in his room unless he had to leave. The journal lay closed beside the bed. He had finished every part of it—her fighting with the resistance, until the day she never came back to write again.

Thoughts were pushing their way into her mind. She was dead and in her anger and despair, she had chosen to come here, to seek him and to wreak vengeance. Instinct had driven her, but her victim seemed to seek her company.

She hadn't even really started her life. It was just starting when she met Harquin, and it had all been taken away. There was no going back now. Nothing could undo what had happened. In truth, some of her own rage has dissipated. Memories had returned. The pale one, Scorpius, had prompted and prompted until the memories returned. Her lovely Harquin and the sheer despair she'd felt when he'd died. His death hurt much more than her own demise. There had been little left of her after his death, just the urge to fight back. The urge to make them hurt as much as possible.

Scorpius had fallen asleep. Two small trails of blood ran down the side of his neck, creating stains on the white sheet beneath him. She didn't feel the unassuageable rage she had before. Too much of the sadness was returning. He still needed to suffer. It was a truth in her mind, but things were twisting away from that original imperative. Maybe because things had changed between them. He sought her company, and that could only be because he wanted something from her. It seemed utterly illogical, but he was seeking her company by staying here all day, reading her whole journal.

Moving to the bed, she stared down at the sleeping man, not much older than her. He'd ended her life and she still couldn't really fathom a reason. And now he sought something from her and she didn't know what. Forgiveness? Did he even have the right to ask for it for what he'd done? She was certainly not of mind to give it to him. If his conscience bothered him, then good. She may not rage, but he still needed to suffer.

His head turned slightly to the side, the wounds of her teeth visible on his pale neck. Reaching out, she touched the raw skin and his head twitched slight. He could feel her. She knew he could when she fed; she felt him too. Now the touch was more like the slight give of a soap bubble, too much and it would pop and her fingers would sink through his flesh. Her fingers trailed lower, across his bare chest. A drawn breath showed he could feel her, but he wasn't shying away from it—as if he accepted it.

Lucy's frown deepened. The horrible things he said to her, the incessant and hateful stares. When it came down to it he wasn't quite so distant when they were touching, as if he craved it. Maybe he just craved anyone's touch. That woman had come. He hadn't been pleased to see her. He chose to be here with a ghost over that woman. Lucy couldn't understand it.

Her fingers pushed into him; he didn't seem to notice. It was only his skin that was sensitive to her touch. She felt the heart beat slowly, ran her fingers over its surface. She'd forgotten the beat of her heart and now noticed how silent everything was without it. For the first time, she actually missed her life. Death had taken so much, and now memories were now slowly returning. The rage had masked everything—masked the love and the sadness, but they were also returning.

She wanted to hear her heart again, but there was only one beating heart in this room. Laying down, she shifted back, immersing herself in him. He was larger than her, but the heart seemed to click into place and suddenly she felt blood flowing, her skin lighting up. She felt her lips move and the flow of the air over her skin. No, it wasn't her skin; it was his. She was in his body and she had clicked into place, taking over his systems. She felt the weight of his flesh, even the movement of his fingers when she urged them to.

With a gasp, she pushed herself out. She hadn't realised she could do that. She had taken him over while he slept. Standing by the bed, she stared down at him. She had pried herself into his body and taken over. It wasn't his mind though; she hadn't felt anything of him; it was a physical absorption.

-0-

Scorpius ate the breakfast the elves had provided, the sound of the cutlery on the plate the only noise in the room. She was watching from across the room, standing there stubborn and mute. He didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to egg her into a reaction, into doing something, but he also wanted for her not to chase him out of the house.

"Any plans today?" he asked, with a grin. Alright, he couldn't quite help himself, because he also wanted to know what was going on in her mind.

"I entered you last night."

"That sounds dirty. Too shy to do it while I'm awake?"

"I took you over. I moved your limbs. Your heart beat for me."

Scorpius sobered, even more so when there was a knock on the door. He hadn't been aware that was on the cards—possession.

Draco stood at the entrance, absently adjusting one of his cufflinks. "We have some business to take care of," he said. "I'll see you downstairs." Draco left, walking silently on the soft carpet of the hall.

With a sigh, Scorpius put his breakfast tray aside, feeling a rush of something he couldn't identity. In the past, it had been anticipation for the fight, but this was something else.

"Oh dear, off to do evil things," she said in a lilting voice. She was definitely becoming more human-like, he noticed. She'd just smiled. It was malicious, but definitely more than the blank staring she'd done when she'd first turned up. The old woman had said to bring her to life and he was certainly succeeding on that account—but then what? That was also a question that kept slipping through his mind, like sand through his fingers. It wasn't a question he wanted to answer.

Tension twisted in his gut. He didn't normally mind this, but her accusation burned in his mind. Evil, he was doing evil. This was necessary; he had always seen that. Before, he had considered it as a source of their strength, the necessary actions to keep peace.

Scorpius moved to his wardrobe and undressed.

"Who will you kill this time?" she asked, almost with glee. "Someone innocent?"

"This isn't something I enjoy."

"Are you sure?" she asked, having moved very close now. He could feel her, although he could be imagining that, wondering if he actually would feel her if he brushed into her.

He turned away, biting his teeth together until his jaw clenched, because he used to enjoy it, saw it as part of his strength and invincibility, their superiority. "It isn't like that," he said, knowing he wasn't entirely truthful. He had seen it as their right, proof of their legitimacy, perhaps through the eyes of youth, he now conceded. He'd never thought of the consequences, blaming them for being stupid enough to stand against the Malfoy powerhouse.

"Are you sure? Because I was there once," she teased, the tone of her voice communicating exactly what she thought, that he was a monster, who loved killing.

"It's not true, what you are insinuating," he said tersely, pulling his clothes on, the black robes, designed to intimidate. It felt like he was pulling on the armor of the person she expected him to be. "It's not true," he repeated. "You may never understand, but this is necessary."

It's what he'd always believed, and been told. The balance had to be kept. It was a valuable service they provided—sure they profited from it, but chaos was in no one's interest, except the people who were trying to achieve it. "Have you ever considered what it would really be like if you achieved your aims? If you toppled the power structure, it would be mayhem. Or were you expecting bunnies and sunshine? Revolutions are always bloody affairs, more so than any damage we cause. You rush in like fools without a realistic through of what you're doing, and then you expect me to feel guilt about it" He stared into her not quite solid eyes. They had been blue, he remembered, but the color wasn't as real now. A twinge of guilt coursed through him. She had been so beautiful and he'd killed her, hadn't even considered another option, but what was he supposed to have done, reason with her?

Suddenly, he needed to defend his action, but he didn't have time, and didn't quite know what to say that he hadn't already. She was only seeing her own side and Draco was waiting downstairs and they had to go. "Maybe you should actually have considered the reality of what it was you were fighting for, because you take no responsibility for the bloodshed you cause."

Without looking back, he left his apartments. Would she rage when he returned, rile against him for the things he did? He drew a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth. This was necessary, and it wasn't going to be pleasant, even if in the past he had done this without a twinge of concern, only seeing his own victory.

She had succeeded in that regard, he thought as he sat down in the car and it started speeding away. She had managed to take the carelessness away from this, so he supposed her aims had now been achieved, even if she didn't quite feel it was enough.

-0-

Staring out of the windows, he watched Paris quickly move by. "Where are we going?"

"Remnant of a cell. They are apparently planning on disrupting manufacturing operations if the intelligence is right" Draco said, impassive as always. Did it bother him, what they did? It never seemed like it. Draco did these things without any discernible emotions. There had never been the pride that Scorpius had felt, but today, Scorpius felt much older than he had a few weeks ago. Pride seemed such a childish thing now.

"Is your ghost still there?" Draco asked after a moment of silence.

Scorpius felt like snorting. "Yes." And she is getting to me, he wanted to admit, but wouldn't allow himself. His father had little sympathy for weakness.

"This has gone on long enough," Draco said, continuing to watch out the window. "I will see if we can find someone else to assist."

Scorpius looked over at his father then back away. A twinge of panic shot through him, because on some level, he didn't want her gone. He certainly couldn't admit that, because for him, her feedings had turned into these twisted pseudo sexual affairs that he didn't feel he was done exploring. But it wasn't the feedings that held him captivated, if he was honest.

For as much as she despised him and only saw him in the worst possible light, she did see him, which turned out to be an addictive quality so strong he couldn't turn away from it. His own insight now amazed him. Claudine and his friends all revered him, looked up to and respected him, but they didn't really see him. Neither did his father. Lucius did perhaps, but wouldn't accept any remorse or weakness. Lucius only saw the necessary. Feelings were points of leverage to get what you wanted, used to manipulate.

Lucy wasn't distracted by any superficial things, like power and influence. Maybe she didn't really see him either, only reflecting him in the worst possible light, but she was seeing deeper than anyone else—a ghost. How pathetic was that? And now she'd been in his body, taking him over. That should freak him the hell out, but it didn't for some reason. He even wished to know what that had felt like.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The car stopped at a grimy part of Paris, covered in half-wit tags and stinking of something rotting. Scorpius felt lethargic, unwilling to get out of the car, but he forced himself. The air was icy and a burst of activity down the alley signified that some scout had seen them coming. They had to move quickly before the cretins sorted their defences.

"This way," Draco said. Draco always had an instinct for where the enemy was. He really was the consummate fighter.

They didn't hurry, instead strolled down the alley toward a door, tagged with a symbol. "They have started using these to communicate," Draco said. "Hiding in plain sight is not always the best strategy." He wretched the door open and they immediately met with blasts, which Draco easily defended against.

The door let to a narrow set of stairs, which was clever on the rebel's part. The rebels had the higher position looking down on a confined space.

Draco flew up the stairs, leaving a black trail of smoke. It was a trick Scorpius hadn't been taught yet. And maybe it was about time he was, but it was intensely distracting and muggles noticed things like that. Instead, he had to wait for Draco to clear the immediate threat, which happened quickly and brutally, usually in more or less silence as Draco's victims rarely had a chance to scream. Draco was efficient, and as soon as firing ceased coming down the stairs, Scorpius walk up the stairs. Adrenalin was now coursing through his blood and he felt the call of battle nipping at him. He'd loved this in the past, the heightened senses, the feeling of invincibility.

The rebels had retreated further into the warehouse, which had nooks and crannies everywhere. It was a good choice for a fight, and Scorpius wondered if this confrontation had been more planned than expected, which meant that they could have laid all sorts of traps—most likely still rudimentary to the point where Scorpius felt his intelligence questioned.

They split up and Scorpius took a hallway leading down to the left. It was dark and somewhere the coarse sound of electrical sparks tortured the air. A blast few his way, but he had time to shield himself. "Just not fast enough," he said. "You're not going to be able to take me."

"You're not as clever as you think, fascist," a man said. The adrenaline made his voice shaky. The days of those extreme reactions were gone for Scorpius, although he still left the energy of a fight, the urge to extend and persevere, be victorious.

"Yeah, I really am," Scorpius said. "This was a mistake."

"You're a mistake."

"That may be so, but I'm still here and this is our town."

"Not anymore." Another shot came and Scorpius ducked out of its way. So predictable. This was like taking candy from a baby. Scorpius shot an energy blast through the wall and was rewarded with an expected cry of pain. He heard the man scamper off, limping away.

This felt a little like déjà vu, not entirely dissimilar to how he'd claimed Lucy. Scorpius sighed. Maybe he'd have another ghost at the end of today—a boyfriend for Lucy perhaps. He could hear by the sound of the guy's voice that he was young. A flash of something shot through him. Another deluded boy, fighting for a cause they didn't quite understand.

"This doesn't need to be," Scorpius said, surprising even himself. "Just slip away. No one will know."

"I'll know," the guy said. Obviously still here.

Another blast came and Scorpius blocked it. They were in closer quarters now and the blasts were more powerful. Scorpius shot another one as soon as he walked around the corner and the guy fell to the ground, scrambling up as quickly as he could to return fire.

"There is no point in dying for this," Scorpius said, trying again, but the guy shot another blast. It was harder to defend at this close range. The guy was sliding back toward the wall. Scorpius wondered how many times he would have to do this exact same thing. They had gotten to this confrontation point so very easily and the kid was running out of options. He knew it too. "It's not worth fighting."

The kid threw his arm, a desperate blast which zinged past Scorpius' ear. Funnily, he hadn't actually defended himself against that one, which was careless. The kid's energies were draining. They were about the same age, and above the scowl, he had light brown hair and freckles. There was blood on his teeth. Truthfully, Scorpius didn't want to kill him, watch the life fleet from his eyes, but there was really no other way to go. Even if the guy begged for forgiveness, Draco would never accept any prisoners. They never accepted prisoners.

"You don't get it, do you?" the guy said. "You can only suppress people for so long. All the energy you spend trying to control everything; it will never work. You might force people to dance to your tune, but no one wants you here, no one accepts you." That wasn't true at all. Their kind thrived in this new order, gaining unimaginable wealth—other's had to comply. "We'll never stop. Sooner or later, you will fall."

"The cost isn't worth it."

"I'm never selling my soul to you. That's what I would do if I stood by and did nothing." He fired another blast, an Avada Kedavra, which Scorpius could only fight with another killing curse. Again, so predictable, Scorpius had known it was coming and was fully ready, and stronger. The curses met and traveled toward the kid.

"Just stop," Scorpius said, even though he knew it was useless. Even if the kid broke, Scorpius had no chance of stopping his at exactly the same moment. The kid was already dead; still breathing for a few more moment. Scorpius' curse overtook as the kid's energy or will faded, throwing a last defiance look at Scorpius before the curse found his chest and he stilled. Everything stilled, replaced by utter silence. The kid's eyes were wide and glassy, staring emptily down at the floor.

Fuck, Scorpius swore silently. This didn't have to be; they just had to stop. Why wouldn't they just stop?

A blast somewhere else in the building garnered Scorpius' attention. His father was still fighting somewhere and Scorpius had to go help. As torn as he felt about this, he couldn't ignore his father. Draco being injured or even dying was unfathomable. Draco's mortality wasn't something that had ever really entered his consciousness before. Draco had always been too strong, too cunning. But was he? An unlucky days and Scorpius could lose his father. There only were two people that actually cared for him; he wasn't ready to lose one of them.

Scorpius ran to where the fighting was, blasting away as soon as he could someone to fight again. It was impersonal again, just enemies without faces or thoughts. He did what he was good at and they soon cleared the building, wary of stragglers hiding for a last shot.

Nausea nipped at his gut when they walked outside. He'd never reacted like this before.

"Why do they do it?" he asked when the car pulled up.

"Because they must," Draco said, looking as unblustered as always.

"They're dying for nothing."

"They're dying for principle."

"A stupid reason to die."

"Or the only reason to die," Draco said, getting into the car.

Scorpius didn't understand. Or maybe he did and didn't want to. These kids, Lucy, would rather die than to live under their rule. They weak insisted on having their say, at peril. Lucy wasn't weak, just on the wrong side.

The car sped home, the blur of scenery passing unnoticed. He'd never seen any of this, but it was dawning on him that Draco did, Draco knew. Scorpius had been too caught up in the privileges of their position, always assuming that it was as it was always meant to be. But their success was at the expense of others, through the control and alienation of those who threatened them. Someone had to be in control. Someone was always stronger. That was the way things were.

His apartments were quiet, but he felt her rage. There was an air of anticipation, like he'd just proved her right, and maybe he had. She stood on the far side. He could see the outline of her body. The A-line dress under a thin cardigan. She looked so innocent, like a student returning from class.

"I could have saved you if you'd let me," he said. It flowed out of his mouth like a thought that refused to be held back—a hope that had never been rational to begin with.

She raised an eyebrow. "You killed me without a second through, like a stray dog, a passing nuisance."

It was true, but it hurt to hear it. His thoughts had not been on her or what she meant. He'd just been forcing an enemy out of their miserable existence. "I'm not a bad person." He knew it was a lie even as he was saying it.

"Who'd you kill today?"

"He forced me."

"Like I did?" she said as she came closer, "Forced you to kill me as I was trying to run away."

"You should never have been there."

"There wasn't anywhere I should have been according to you."

"That's not true."

"No, that's right, exist in sheer subjugation, while you roll straight over us in your greed."

"It isn't like that."

"Yes, it is. At least be honest with yourself—we deserve it. People are dying and you can't even be honest about the reason," she said harshly. This wasn't true. He moved toward the door, but she appeared in front of him. "Others must die so you can live, and you won't even acknowledge that. Perhaps that's the biggest insult."

Scorpius felt hemmed in, still battling with an irrational desire to save her. Subconsciously he'd be searching for some way to restore her, or at least to find some way of co-existing, but the truth was that there was no escaping her death—one he'd caused. He'd killed her and there was no use wanting that undone. "I'm sorry I killed you," he admitted.

She blinked. "You think I'm after an apology?" she laughed.

"What are you after?"

"My objectives haven't changed. I want you ended, destroyed."

It hurt to think that she was so close to him, knew him and still wished him ill. She fed from him and he wanted her, and she still felt nothing but cold hate. "You've always had the power to. Didn't you realize that?" Somehow, he'd expected that she wanted something more off him, because the truth was that he'd wanted something more off her.

"Just been gathering my strength."

Scorpius forced a lopsided grin, because she'd been zapping his—not just his blood, but slowly his confidence and peace of mind. It had all been a clever trick. She'd forced him to look at himself and what they did. Just like the soothsayer had told him to do. Now he felt tired. She had been better at this than him.

"Who'd you kill today?"

"Some kid," he admitted, unable to lie anymore. "Not much different from you." She moved closer and he still wanted her, wanted her near, wanted comfort from the one who would never give it to him. "I tried to make him stop."

"See, you can't. It's you they object to." She was close now; he could feel goosebumps rising all over his body. He just wanted her warm, coming near him—accepting him. But that was the point: she didn't, fundamentally rejecting everything he was, and it wasn't just his position, it was him. "You're cruel."

"You're cruel," she accused. "I'm just pointing it out. You've always been completely heartless, and you always will be. Things will never change. You will keep killing, anyone who stands in your way, our lives just a passing side-note in your stellar existence."

She was moving toward him and he was backing up, feeling cornered. Nothing she said was a lie. He felt his own weakness. She was growing strong and he was weakening. Also aware that if he bested her, weakened her, he had to become much harder, colder, the way Draco was. Youthful arrogance didn't cut it anymore; this was the sacrifice. There was no fairy tale ending here where they would find some compromise and learn to exist, maybe even thrive. There was no way he could continue this existence with his soul intact either. This was kill or be killed, and he would be unrecognizable on the other side. He could feel the chill of it already, emanating from the future, where hope didn't exist.

"I can't," he said, more to himself.

"You will. I won't stop. It will never stop, unless you are stopped, or you stop me. Looks like I'm winning."

He could feel her now, the chill growing, her rage cresting, but he still wanted her. She would never forgive him, never save him from the sheer loneliness that lay ahead. How desperate was he if he clung onto a ghost to save his own humanity.

His fingers touched him and she felt solid, but cold as ice. There was icy wind, whipping around the apartment. This was her doing. She was gathering her forces, ready to rip him apart.

"Just do as you will," he said, feeling utterly defeated, and the truth was, it wasn't her—she was just the mechanism. He didn't have the heart to fight her.

The pressure in the room built painfully. He felt it pressing on his chest, on his ear drums. It still wasn't as scary as the future he faced.

Icy fingers dug into his chest. This was it. He felt the chill around his heart. It would be over soon. He was giving in to her, placing himself in her hateful hands, because the alternative seemed a worse option. On some irrationally hopeful level, he wished she did this with some empathy—but maybe the wish for it was enough. Pain seared through him, so harsh he couldn't even vocalize it, then blackness encroached.

A/N Bit of a cliffy, I know.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Scorpius woke with a start, his heart pounding. Twisting sharply, he searched for her, wondering what was going on. Sun streaming into the room. There was nothing, empty. His eyes roamed the apartments, but he couldn't see her. Pushing off the bed, he strode to the bathroom, but she wasn't there. Not a trace of her.

As he returned, he knew full well that she wasn't there. He strode out of the apartment, searching for a sense of her, the feeling he had when she was there, but there was nothing. Not by the pool, or in the hall, or downstairs. There was nothing.

He felt abandoned. He'd been abandoned. Last night, he'd given in, expecting … He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting—to die, maybe—probably. Everything he had, he'd given to her last night, and now there was complete emptiness.

This couldn't be it. It couldn't be over. He wasn't ready to be alone again.

Icy tightness gripped his chest when he returned to his room, grabbing his wand off the bedside table. The iciness had nothing to do with her. It was an altogether different dread. With a flick he apparated to the cave in Iceland. Physical iciness hit him now. In his rush, he hadn't dressed. Snow chilled his bare feet and snowflakes prickled as they landed on his bare shoulders.

"Where is she?" he demanded as he marched into the cave. It appeared empty at first, but he wasn't accepting that. "Where is she?"

A rustling sound came from the back and he waited. This was the only source of answers. There had to be a way of fixing this.

"You succeeded," the woman said after a while.

"This isn't how it's supposed to be." It was all he could manage to say. "I didn't succeed. I wasn't trying to destroy her. I … " He couldn't go on, explain what his intentions had been. The fear to appear weak was too ingrained.

"She has released you," the woman said with a dismissive wave.

"I don't want to be released," he said through gritted teeth.

She stopped and watched him for a moment. "The connection is broken. I can see nothing of it anymore. She had released you."

"How do I get her back?" he asked carefully, wary that he wanted to hit something.

The woman sighed. "You cannot. It was always her hold on you that secured her here. She is gone now, absorbed by the ether."

This wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. "How do I reach her?"

"She is gone," the woman repeated in a stronger tone. "Probably no longer sentient. Just get used to it. Count yourself lucky that she released you. Perhaps she forgave you, after all."

Scorpius' mouth hung open for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts.

"Lucky indeed," she said, shuffling over to a pile of junk and lifting something off it. "Hauntings can go on forever."

Scorpius closed his mouth. That's what he wanted. He wanted her back, wanted her there in his rooms, waiting for him to return—to spar, to feed. His very own tormentor. It was an existence he'd been fully prepared to embrace. He clenched his teeth together. Loneliness stretch out before him, years and years of it.

Closing his eyes, he shifted his head.

"Can't make a life with a ghost, boy," she said. "A creature of vengeance she was, and she exacted her revenge on you. In the good graces of the fates, you survived."

"She didn't want my death," he finally said. He snorted. "She wants me to live with her death." He turned to leave.

"This will pass in time," she said. "You will forget."

"No, I won't," he muttered as he left the icy cave, almost preferring it to the emptiness at home. Bitterness filled his insides, but it couldn't entirely quench the hopeless ache in his chest. Suddenly he wanted to gather every trace of her, but the landlord would have disposed of her things by now. Why hadn't he taken steps to preserve them? He'd seen it all as trash at the time, that apartment that smelled like her, held all the things she'd treasured—except the journal. He still had that. The only proof she ever existed at all.

-0-

PART II – DRACO


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Cassandra Wilkes got into one of the sleek, black Malfoy Inc car after Ramone, her superior, sitting down on the stiff, cream leather and closing the door. They were driving to Geneva. The boss, the real boss in a car ahead had some kind of meeting today. It was expected to be a low key affair without much incident, but they always had to be vigilant. The rebels were always trying to get Draco Malfoy, above all others—seen as the symbol for the strength of the current regime. Every regime had its opposition. It has always been that way. Someone always lost in a power structure, and they were sore about it. Greed pushed people to action, even if they told themselves some altruistic reason for what they were doing. Whatever pure aims the rebels had when they started, they had been corrupted by their own violence, forcing a more violent response. It was a never ending circle, but Cassandra couldn't see an end to it. These things didn't end, they were a constant battle.

It would be a nice world when everyone could sit down and talk through their problems, but the world just didn't work that way. And someone had to keep the regime intact. So many people would lose if this regime fell, including her family.

Draco Malfoy was a brutal man. He did the things that were necessary, and some of it wasn't always pleasant. With the exception of the rebels, the Malfoys and the larger regime behind them kept the peace. Families prospered and societal structures kept everything going. Dealing with the dark underside was necessary, and she was a part of that.

Growing up as part of one of the lesser families, it had always been expected that she would serve in some capacity, and her skills and intelligence had soon been discovered. She had a knack for anticipating the enemy's tactical plans, which Ramone appreciated. He listened to her when her gut told her something, and the job paid well.

The countryside flashed by as they traveled fast down the motorways. There were faster ways to travel, but the boss preferred this. It did give one time to think, she supposed, checking yet again that her wand and her guns were safely tucked into their holsters.

"Is there anything particular we need to watch for?" she asked.

"We've had no specific intelligence. It appears the rebels aren't aware of this meeting, but you never know."

Not even she really knew what his meeting was about, but it wasn't their business to know—they just ensured there were no interruptions and to swiftly deal with them if there were.

She wouldn't go so far as to say she liked her job. It was a good job, with privilege. People respected her position, and it was expected she would make a good marriage one day. The Wilkes were trying hard to secure her a good match, someone who would elevate the family prospects. This job also allowed her to see how the very elite were. Draco Malfoy was at the very top of Parisian, even continental European society. If he told a joke, everyone would laugh, not that he ever would. He did very little that was superfluous or unnecessary. It was ironic that he least appreciated his high position in society, or appeared to. He went to events when he needed to represent the family, but rarely stayed a moment longer than he needed to.

Crossing her legs, she rested her hand on her thigh, palm up. Ramone was stuck in his own thoughts and Ralph was silent in the front. There was another two cars of their people following, ready to protect the premises when they arrived. The guys were alright, but they honestly didn't have much between their ears.

Her thoughts turned back to the boss. He wasn't stupid; he just didn't show what he was thinking most of the time. That glacial face of his rarely showed any thought, much less emotion, but once in a while, when they entered new properties, she saw him inspecting the art if it was interesting. It was the only thing that indicated he had any personality of all, other than being supremely attuned to violence. In truth, he both fascinated and repulsed her. Being in his attention was uncomfortable, like you didn't quite trust what was going on behind those cold eyes.

They were coming into Geneva now, heading south to a manor located at the edge of the lake. She didn't know who it belonged to. It could be Malfoy property for all she knew, but she'd never been there before. It was old and white, large glass windows along the front. Squarish in a typical European way, almost like it had French influences.

They got out and the gravel crunched under feet. "Secure the east perimeter," Ramone said. "Ralph, you the south. Henri will take north, and Polish west. You take the lake front, Cassandra." The others had joined them. "The rest of you form two concentric circles within the perimeter moving in opposite directions. Keep in communication. I want to know quickly if one of you is taken out of action."

"Yes, sir," Cassandra said along with all the other. Janet, an older woman on their team, threw her an acknowledging look as they spread out of guard their respective areas.

The boss entered the house without looking back, a shorter man carrying a brief case right behind him. It wasn't her business to wonder what this was all about. Regime business, that is all she needed to know.

The air was chilly, but the sun shone. It definitely felt like spring and this location was beautiful. Leaves had budded. Maybe spring came a little earlier down here than in Paris. There was still snow on the Alps further away, reflecting off the cold, dark blue water. The house sat back a bit from the water's edge, but it would have absolutely stunning views.

Stopping herself from being distracted, she watched the horizon, seeking any sign of movement or reflected light indicating someone was there, but there was nothing. If the rebels were there, they would hit pretty quickly after arrival, usually before they had a chance to take their places, but again, you never knew.

Cassandra tucked a stray curl of her short dark copper hair behind her ear and responded to a call to check in.

-0-

They were there all day and the sun had warmed to air a little that afternoon, which also suggested it would be a cold night. Cassandra had to take her dark navy jacket off and hang it on a branch. She really wasn't used to the heat and rarely did well in it. Summers weren't her favorite season, truth be told. The heat always made things harder.

She'd eaten the two protein bars she had in her pockets and was now starting to get really hungry, but their hunger was a secondary condition and she'd grown used to its ache. When she was relieved, she could eat her fill, until then, she just had to shut up and put up.

There were voices further away which drew her attention and she made her way through the shrubbery toward the disturbance, ensuring she stayed out of sight behind a copse of pines. They weren't supposed to be seen if at all possible.

A group of three men were there, apparently having appeared through the open white doors at the back of the house. The gravel they stood on surrounded the house and there was a rose garden in the back, stark and spindly this time of year.

A man with a round belly and a cigar between his fingers was talking animatedly as if he was going to impress or convince. His attention was exclusively on Draco. Someone was trying to improve their position or get a contract or whatever. Draco was impassive as always, but he obviously felt comfortable enough with these men to take his jacket off, standing there is just a white shirt and his hands tucked into black pants. Compared to the other man, he was slim, not that Cassandra ever saw him eat.

The other men bowed and turned to leave. She followed their movement to inform the others that two guests were heading north to the back of the property. She stepped further back into the pines, which pricked her back as if resisting her intrusion.

She heard Draco's feet crunch on the gravel, but he seemed to be heading away from the house. He was on the move and she wondered if she should inform the others. This was not scheduled. Peaking her head out, she searched for him, finding him walking toward the lake shore. Alright, he wasn't going anywhere, just checking out the views, which also put him nicely in the target for any long range weapons. It was not their place to tell him what to do though. Draco's word was law, and they quietly kept anyone from intruding. No one she had ever met could take him. She certainly couldn't. With him, fighting was an art form and he was the master.

They weren't so much guarding Draco as keeping his cocoon of silence and isolation. Scorpius was different. He could get himself into all sorts of things—partying all night, sleeping with random girls. Not so much of late, she had to admit. Draco was still much easier because he was so contained, like there wasn't really a personality there at all, just an analytical—and powerful—machine.

He kept going, pulling his hand out of his pocket and pushing it through his hair. He walked out onto a small wooden jetty where a row boat was. The boat surely wasn't his aim? Instead, he stopped half way down and crouched, something she'd never seen him do before. It be honest, she hadn't been completely sure his knees bent so far.

But he even went further and sat down at the edge and took his shoes off. This was more disheveled than she'd ever seen him and she'd been working at the Malfoy headquarters for five years now.

She should be going away, leave him to what was obviously a rare moment of personal reflection, or whatever it was that he was doing, but for some reason, she couldn't make her feet move.

His bare feet were pale and he rolled the hems of his pants up, sticking his feet into the icy water. No doubt a comfortable temperature for such a cold-blooded creature. She'd never actually touched him to see if he had any body head. He looked like cold mist and she'd always assumed he was.

As she watched, he leaned back on the wooden planks of the jetty and stretched out, his arms softly laying back with him. She definitely shouldn't be watching this. She should be leaving him to what he obviously assumed was a private moment, but she couldn't look away. It was the most human thing she'd ever seen him do. There was actually a human being stuck within that cold exterior. She had never seen him in that light before. There was a person in there, maybe even with hopes and dreams, although she couldn't image it.

Disturbed, she finally tore her gaze away and carefully stepped through the trees. She'd be mortified if she were observed. She'd probably be fired. Draco did not in any way encourage anyone to see an inch of humanity. It was weird enough to think there was any inside him, without having to acknowledge to him that she had. Actually, she wasn't sure she could imagine anything more uncomfortable.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N Short chapter this time. Pre-warning.

Chapter 16

Draco walked through the charred remains of a property in a small town just outside Paris. There had been an incident the previous day and the place needed to be cleaned up. Charred battle sites upset the muggle administration. The house would be torn down and everyone told a house fire had occurred due to some faulty wiring.

These ongoing skirmishes with the rebels weren't ceasing, and Draco didn't expect them to. Maybe it would die down. It would be nice to think, not that he could image what he would do with himself if he wasn't guarding the empire. He'd never really developed other skills, focusing himself completely on being indestructible.

Charred wood crunched under his feet and the smell of the place stuck in his nose. He didn't mind it, actually, although his gloved hands refused to touch anything.

It looked like it had been the home of a young couple, some idealistic nitwits who had invited disaster into their little nest. There was a framed photo of them, holding each other at the top of the Empire State building, no doubt on some vacation they'd taken. They looked so happy, absorbed in each other like nothing else existed. And yet they had brought destruction down on their happy home. It didn't make sense.

Draco had never had a connection like that, but he would have assumed it was precious enough to protect. Would he have fought harder to protect it? How far would he go to safeguard a connection if he had one? Love, a concept he didn't quite believe in. Just people searching for something to give their lives meaning, and they seemed to chase it, complicit with the delusion that it meant something. But it was too pervasive to be completely dismissed through, wasn't it? He'd seen the most noble acts meant to protect a loved one.

Obviously, we would do anything in his power to protect his son and father, but a beyond that, he'd never had anything that would urge him to be irrational. Truthfully, even the relationships within his own family had a certain distance he had never been able to overcome.

Relationships had never been a prominent feature in his life. His marriage had been a cold affair and he took a great deal of the blame for it, but then neither of them had remotely cared about the other, and dealing with Astoria had always been an unpleasant task. Dealing with other was typically a transaction, one he didn't indulge in more than he needed to. Perhaps because it was an empty representation—it was certainly nothing like the warmth and joy on the faces of the tourists in New York.

Picking the photo up, he let it drop to the ground. Whatever that had been, it was ashes now. Fighting had been more important than preserving it.

With a last look, he left the building and returned to the waiting car. There was nothing else to be learnt here, the people dead or gone, the survivor no doubt recuperating to fight another day. So this would go on. There was no risk of his retirement just yet, even if the thought had started to creep in last week—a notion that there could be something different in his life.

The thought also terrified, the idea of years of solitude and lack of purpose stretching ahead of him. Sure, he went to parties and events when he had to and people watch him with wary and differential eyes, hoping to catch his eye and an invitation to approach, in aim of getting whatever they wanted. They always wanted something—power, contracts, connections. Some were smarter than others and hid what they wanted, others were too blatant to hide.

But no one had ever looked at him with eyes that weren't trying to work out how to leverage the opportunity. Maybe he didn't blame them. Most likely he would be exactly the same in their position, but successful—the reason they were running the continent.

On the whole, the relationships he saw at these events were nothing to envy. Eyes shining with greed. He needed to guard against these people as much as the rebels. Their innuendos and schemes could be just as damaging if not kept in check.

The car brought him back to the house and he met no one walking up their stairs as he continued to his apartments. The house was cold marble and soft, dark carpets, designed with the best materials and craftsmanship available in the world. Entering his rooms, he headed to the bar and poured whiskey from an ancient crystal decanter and sat down along the sofa. The stillness of the place, which usually soothed him, felt oppressive. Perhaps it was the coldness inside him that felt threatening, like his blood was slowing down, freezing with lack of … something.

There were people he'd envied. Mostly they were long dead now, or just missing. People who had striven to live authentically. The thought rubbed. While he didn't recognize his life as inauthentic, there were part of him that had never been allowed to develop. He'd been different when he was young, and he'd even lost the things that had driven him then—envy, belief and ambition.

Maybe he just wanted to feel something, even if the petty jealousy and anger he saw in others. It could be that there was value to the pathetic displays of emotions he'd always dismissed—a jealous spouse, a hurtful statement and petty retaliation.

He could never bring himself to engage in such a paltry relationship, even if he wanted to—he would murder some vacant clothes-horse within days—but the real deal, someone who actually knew him, that was something else. Someone who was here when he came home, who wanted to know what thoughts strayed into his mind. It might not even be possible. Perhaps he was too far gone, too cold, to ever entertain such a relationship.

The whiskey warmed his throat and he shook off the morose ideas that had crept into his mind. Perhaps it was Scorpius' issues with his unwanted guest, and the resulting discouragement he'd seen in his son, even as the situation has since resolved itself—which was good because they had been running out of options.

Clearing his mind, he picked up a book and started reading. He found it relaxing, another habit he'd never engaged in during his youth. Thoughts of people long dead encroached, but he pushed them away. There was no use thinking of them. Fate had lead down this road, and everyone had a responsibility in how it had all eventuated.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Cassandra walked through the kitchen at Malfoy headquarters, having come from deeper into the building where her rooms were. The thing she hated most about her rooms, was the lack of natural light. The rooms were small, which wasn't a problem; she didn't need a lot of space, but the lack of natural light got to her. She could always walk in the garden, which was surprisingly sizeable for inner Paris, but the Malfoy's had the means to insist.

But today it rained, so she sat on one of the chairs under the covered part outside the garage, where the smokers typically retreated to. She was alone, which suited her just fine. As far as she knew, they weren't going anywhere. It didn't settle the general feeling of unease she'd had since the moment they'd returned from Geneva. Particularly as thoughts of her boss seemed to stray into her mind at odd times. They weren't inappropriate as such, but they lingered in her mind. It wasn't anything she could put her finger on, just passing thoughts, like she was cataloguing the things that made him human. Not that he was. A colder man couldn't be found. Even the senior Malfoy, Lucius, had more personality, charm. Although she would never make the mistake of assuming Lucius' charm didn't cover pure ruthlessness underneath.

Whatever she did, she didn't seem able to shake this constant analysis. It wasn't something that had particularly plagued her in the past; something that had cropped up after Geneva, but maybe that was what happened when you noticed that someone who appeared quite inhuman actually had some human qualities deeply buried under a solid exterior.

The buzzing at her hip made her jump as the pager went off. Apparently she was wanted. They must be going somewhere after all. Rising, she took a breath, suddenly feeling nervous, which also signified that something was off. The driver passed her as she walked in. They really were going somewhere and she quickly hurried to the meeting point, checking her gun at her side and the wand on the other. Even in the building, they were armed, because it could happen that the rebels try to attack the headquarters. Unlikely, but it could happen.

"What's up?" she asked Ramone, who was standing in the foyer with his arms crossed, waiting for the others to appear.

"Just transport," he said, which meant they were going somewhere in the city.

A bit sudden, she thought. The Malfoys were normally well planned, so they knew ahead of time when and where, but must be an unplanned event, which was typically only something Scorpius did.

When Ralph and Henri arrived, they walked through the entrance way and out where the car was now waiting. She saw Townsend go upstairs to inform the Malfoys, whoever was travelling, that they were ready to go.

From her viewpoint, Cassandra could see Lucius coming down the stairs, his dark robes so black they barely reflected any light and his silky white hair tied back. Followed by another set of legs. She knew immediately who it was and felt her own heart beat race. Now that was a reaction she hadn't expected and was certainly not happy about. Something had definitely shifted in Geneva and now she was getting butterflies whenever Draco Malfoy was near. Not good.

The two men spoke quietly as they walked through the large, medieval copper doors and down to the car. Lucius walked around the other side, while Draco came towards her side of the car, where she opened to door for him. He never even looked at her, but he placed her hand at the top of the door, his pale fingers resting there for a moment as he got in. He had nice hands, strong, masculine—capable.

"You ride with Carlos," Ralph said as he walked past. Cassandra bit her lips together and smiled tightly. Just what she needed right now, to ride with the topic of her unwanted infatuation sitting right behind her, breathing the same air. But it wasn't her job to question arrangements, and she certainly couldn't explain a reason, so she got in and shut the door behind her, giving Carlos a small nod as he pulled away.

"The French Government wants to renegotiate terms," Lucius said, his lazy, arrogant drawl filled the car. They didn't bother raising the partition, their trust in their security absolute. Loyalty was something prized above all else by the Malfoys and any sign of disloyalty was quickly routed out and destroyed, just like any side of insurrection from the rebels. It made leaving the service near impossible, because they had been privy to sensitive information during their time in the Malfoy service. It was something they knew and agreed to when they'd signed on.

"Or perhaps they need to live with the terms they already agreed to," Draco's voice filled the car. He wasn't speaking loudly, but the sound tingled down her spine and she closed her eyes. Yep, she had definitely developed some weird form of infatuation.

"Yes, well, negotiation can be a convoluted process. It can take years in and of itself," Lucius continued dryly.

"They're just looking for their palms to be greased."

"I'm not sure," Lucius said a little absently. "Things appear to have shifted slightly."

Draco snorted. "Things never change."

Lucius didn't say anything more, and Cassandra wondered what Lucius meant that things had shifted—not that it was her business.

When Carlos pulled over, Cassandra got out and opened Draco's door. He stepped out, checking the button on his jacket and turned to his father, away from her. The dark material of his jacket draped over shoulders and again she was struck by the idea that there was a real person under the clothes, a man. It still felt like an abstract concept. And now she could see the slight expansion of his breathing. A real body, with breath and blood flowing, a heartbeat.

He turned again, and cast an absent look toward her as he passed. Those steel-gray eyes passed over her and her breath stopped. What did he see when he looked on her? What she just part of the scenery? She knew she was. Just another suit, part of the security detail. For all she knew, he didn't even know her name.

Unable to help herself, she watched as he walked toward the building, moving up the stairs next to Lucius, his back straight and shoulders back. He moved so fluently. The speed and precision when he could move was unlike anything she'd ever seen. Draco in action was awe-inspiring.

Only now that they were inside and out of view did she notice the building. They were at one of the municipal offices, and she hadn't even noticed until now. This thing was compromising her, she recognized as she closed the door to the car.

"Come," Ralph said, walking toward the building. They had to follow, of course. Again, she was slightly caught unawares when she knew full well that the protocol was. With hurried steps, she followed the others as they guarded the Malfoys.

Draco was walking ahead of her; she could hear his steps on the white marble floor, watched as his body moved. There was a person under those clothes, who wanted things, did things. Had sex. Color flared up her cheeks. Even the thought of it felt like an intrusion into his privacy.

"You alright?" Ralph asked next to her.

"Fine."

"You look a bit drawn."

"I hope I'm not coming down with something," she said tightly, knowing in a way she already had, and it was bad.

She would just have to shake it. Maybe she needed to get laid herself, not that she had anyone at the moment. There had been a guy she'd messed around with, but these things got complicated in this world and it had drifted apart. Sometimes it was easier to deal with muggles, have someone who knew nothing of the politics of their world, but that got complicated as well, as not everyone wanted to put up with an intermittent and quite shallow relationship.

There were times when she felt like cutting loose and would go to a club and just dance endlessly—dance until dawn. Maybe it was time for a night out with a couple of the girls.

The Malfoys were having a discussion with some official behind a heavy set of doors and Cassandra was appointed to guarding a corridor further down, where she could look down on the street below, see anything coming.

Her mind indulged in an image of her doing her job, taking on a threat coming—protecting him, and him knowing she had.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she repeated to herself as she paced around the empty hall. This was bad. She had to get over this, past it somehow. Her going all puppy eyed when he walked past was downright embarrassing, particularly if someone noticed. A shock of embarrassment flared through her at the thought of him noticing. She blinked, trying to clear the mortifying idea from her mind. He would probably fire her for starters, but she couldn't technically leave, so a compromised security agent would probably be given kitchen or laundry duties, for the rest of her life, somewhere hidden away from sight and forgotten.

She had to shake this, if not for her personal sanity, for her career.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

It looked like they were heading into negotiations with the French Government. The process would be long and onerous, not to mention tedious. If it was Draco's choice, he wouldn't bother, preferring blunter measures, but Lucius didn't mind. Draco supposed it kept the French Government distracted and out of the way, so there was a benefit.

The problem was that Draco didn't have the patience required, perhaps for little these days, preferring decisive action. If there was a kink in a rope, you cut it out, although he recognised that there were benefits in slower, more considered approaches, but couldn't sit through endless discussions where the muggles tried to push their luck.

Twisting his cufflink to straighten the cotton shirt inside his black jacket, he rose from the table, leaving his father and son to continue their discussion on current politics along the Rhine and the alps. Lucius was keen to give Scorpius more responsibility, but Scorpius was circumspect about this new responsibility now, whereas in the past he'd rushed toward more trust. Perhaps Scorpius had learnt not to embrace a more involved part in the family business and the way it consumes a life—as it had Draco's own.

Draco had always accepted this, but these doubts that had recently arisen still clung to his consciousness. The feeling that there was more to be had returned, but he saw no room in his life for anything other than what he excelled at.

The soft carpet made his climb up the stairs silent as he moved to his apartments that had been designed in optimal taste. Perhaps he needed a change, but in his gut he knew a change of décor would not settle this bothersome mood. Neither would getting laid, which left him feeling empty and disappointed—because it wasn't in the end what he was after. It didn't begin to address what he was truly after. It hinted at it, but never truly delivered, only highlighting that it was not the way to achieve it.

Intimacy, it was such a ridiculous word, suited to a ridiculous notion. All his life, he had strengthened himself to ensure he didn't need anyone, but it was dawning on him that it was a need he couldn't entirely suppress—at least the craving for it. He didn't need it as such, it was just a craving—that was it, a craving, an itch he had no means of scratching. Achieving intimacy with another person wasn't something you could buy, it had to be done through consent by the other person, a process left you utterly vulnerable. Vulnerability was the ultimate sin, inviting all sorts of problems and repercussions that should have been guarded against. If there was a way around that, he would have achieved it, but there wasn't. Intimacy could not be had while keeping the other party at a distance.

He missed his youth, when things like this didn't matter. Achievement was what drove him, but there was nothing left of achieve now. This was all maintenance and it bored him. A bitter smile spread across his lips. It would be seriously wrong to start a war to appease his own boredom. He wasn't quite callous enough accept the losses of such a course simply to entertain himself. Wars were brutal and people died. While he didn't think intimacy was a state he could ever achieve, he did respect it between other people, and a war would inevitably destroy such things.

The itch to fight, truly all out fighting, still seduced his mind. Maybe because in the midst of a war, there was no future to think about, everything was immediate and real. You could not fight a war with a façade to hide behind. True character emerged—bravery, strength, and even a sorts of intimacy.

He snorted. There was that word again—intimacy. It seemed every avenue he escaped down, it lay at the end, like an unwanted nemesis.

A knock on the door disturbed his thoughts and he was grateful.

"What?" he demanded. He was partially undressed, his jacket off and shirt unbuttoned, but then it wasn't guests knocking at his door, it was staff.

The door cracked slightly and a head partially appeared. "Sorry, returning these," a woman said holding a box. "They have been clean. I didn't realise you were here. I'll come back later."

"No, it's fine. Leave them on the table." It was his pistols and he didn't feel entirely comfortable being without them for the night.

A girl emerged, the red-headed one which reported to Ramone. She wore a navy suit and practical shoes, dark leather, made for running without looking too out of place with a suit. Her hair was tied back in a bun low on the back of her head, and she walked in with the box carried in her arms like it was something precious. Maybe it was; he would seriously rip some stripped out of anyone who damaged his pistols.

The box made a slight thud as she put it down on the glass table. It reverberated through the silent apartment. Sharply she stood then almost startled when she saw him as if she hadn't know he was there, when he'd clearly told her to enter. "Who told you to clean them?"

"Ramone," she said, blinking sharply and looking away, taking a step back. These were all signs of someone under stress, an over-exaggerated reaction for the current situation.

"When?"

"I collected them when you went for dinner," she started.

"When did he ask you to?" Draco cut in. Her eyes returned to his and her lips drew tight. He was interrogating her and she knew it. As he stepped closer, he could see her discomfort growing, again an inappropriate reaction for the situation. Now he was curious. What had this girl done with his pistols? The girl was definitely on edge as he moved closer still. Something was off here and he kept an eye on her hands as he bent over and unclipped the box. The pistols looked fine and he picked one up, unclipping the cartridge and checking it out. It looked fine, cleaned and oiled. So why was this girl so jumpy? Returning the cartridge, he watched the girl's eyes follow the barrel of the pistol.

She had been in their employ for a few years now. The family was loyal and there had never been any qualms about her service, but now her behavior showed there was something off with her.

The rebels turning one of their security staff was always a worry, although it had never happened. "How long have you worked here?" he asked.

"Three years," she responded.

Carefully, he considered her, studied her features, looking for tells. Her hands were curled into fists and she forced herself to let them extend. Another sign that there was an inner battle going on in this girl's head. Did she hate him? This was how people who hated him acted when they were trying to hide it. It wasn't worth asking why—people hated him for all sorts of reasons. "And what are your ambitions, Miss Wilkes?"

"Ambition?" she asked, confusion marring her brow. She was pretty, even if she tried to hide it with the severe hair style and bland suit. Clear, bright eyes considered him back. If she hated him, she was a good enough actor to not let it show in her face. Not everyone could manage that.

"What do you seek to achieve with your career?"

She made a slight step sideways. "Uh, I don't know. My parents would like me to get married at some point, I suppose."

"And what kind of marriage do you hope you will achieve?"

"A prosperous one?" she said, her tone rising. Clearly a lie and he raised his eyebrows at the blatant untruth, because this was not a concern that had plagued her mind. Good at faking a bad lie, he thought. "One with some degree of affection," she tried again, with more honesty.

"Affection," he said, chewing his lower lip. Affection was certainly not an encouraged aim for young girls in their society. Was there someone less appropriate tending to that need in her now? Such a quest would make someone vulnerable. Had she fallen into a trap? A refined and underhanded tactic for the rebels, but he didn't consider it impossible. "And what would you do for affection?"

She looked downright confused now and didn't know what to say. "Do? It's either there or it's not. It isn't something you can 'do' for. I should perhaps tend to some chores," she said, a little too brightly.

He could have stopped her, but he watched her go, walk towards the door, which she closed silently behind her. She'd been holding her breath, waiting for him to stop her. There was definitely something remiss about what he'd just witnessed. They might have a compromised asset in their house. He would have to keep an eye on her. If she was, she would lead him right to the people using her, and suffer the consequences in the process. Quests for affection meant nothing when it came to disloyalty.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Cassandra sat on her bed drying her hair after a shower. She felt like shit, and this feeling was relentless—like an ache that just wouldn't go away. Her short, wet hair hung in clumps around her head and she used a towel to stop it dripping down on her shoulders, but then she couldn't be bothered anymore and lay back on her pillow, knowing she was making it wet. She didn't care.

Turning to her side, she tucked her knees up. This was her life now. Stuck in this little, non-descript room, in love with the walking icicle himself. It didn't sound like such a bad thing, falling in love, but it was who she'd fallen in love with that was the problem—fucking Draco Malfoy. Of all the truly stupid things to do, because there was absolutely no future there. Draco Malfoy didn't do love; he did destruction—even if there was that little glimpse of humanity hidden so very deep inside the harsh, cold exterior. A glimpse of human she was never supposed to be privy to, and never would be again.

She wasn't comfortable and turned on her back, knowing it wasn't the position that made her restless. It didn't matter what position she would lie in, the discomfort persisted. The ultimate stupidity was indulging in the fantasies that beckoned in her mind, but she wasn't quite that silly, strictly forbidding herself to let her mind wander.

This was compromising her effectiveness in her work, but it was compromising her as a person even more. What kind of person would fall in love with Draco Malfoy? He was a monster. A glimpse of hidden humanity didn't make up for that. That glimpse of humanity still allowed him to be what he was, to do the things he did. There wasn't a single more ruthless man alive. There were no romantic notions here that love would change him. People like him didn't change, and he certainly wasn't able to nurture anything like a relationship; his past actions proved that.

Her phone buzzed with a text message. Grabbing it off the bedside table, she saw that she was required, that they were going out. With a sigh, she dressed as quickly as she could, every part of her striving against leaving this room, because he would probably be there. But she didn't have the right to say no; she was basically a slave here. Sure, they paid her, but she had no choice in her own life. When they called, she had to go.

Pulling her wet hair back in a short ponytail, she took the stairs to the meeting point.

"Listen up," Ramone said to the gathered security staff, "we are pretty much repeating what we did the other day. Senior and Dragon," they called Draco Dragon as code out of habit, even if it was completely obvious who they were talking about, "are going back to the municipal building, same as before, then to lunch at Riccatello. You know what your job is. I want nothing out of the ordinary. If anyone is uncertain of what they need to do, speak up now." No one spoke. They were too well trained for confusion. Even when things got heavy and shots pelted around them, they all still knew what to do, or when to look for direction.

They wandered upstairs and went out into the street, scanning the surroundings for any signs of trouble. Cassandra went toward the third car in the convoy and stood by, waiting until the family was safely in the car.

The senior Malfoy appeared and Draco followed, also scanning the street. Draco didn't trust anyone, even his security detail. He wore a dark gray suit today, tailored perfectly, the material having a tiniest hint of a shimmer in places where it stretched as he moved. Expensive material. She didn't even dare thing how much that suit cost, but cost was never a factor for any of the Malfoys.

Draco's scan paused on her for a moment and her heart stopped. It was probably her skewed sense of perception, but it felt like he paused on her for a moment. There was no expression on his face and his eyes were as cold as they always were. His lips moved for a moment, then he disappeared into the back of the car.

They all went to take their seats, but Ramone turned toward her and lifted his eyebrows in the way he always did when he wanted to say something. She jogged up to him.

"Boss wants you in front," he said.

"What?"

"You heard me." Ramone kept walking, not feeling the need for any explanation, when she really wanted to know why. It wasn't her place to know why or to question orders. If she was told to go up front, she went up front. By why had that been requested?

Forcing her hand to still, she opened the front door of the family limousine and got in, her mind still feverishly trying to think why this had been requested. Maybe because this was how they traveled before, but none of the family were particularly OCD about how the security was distributed.

She actually felt his gaze in the back of her head. He was onto her. He knew something was up with her, and this was his way of telling her he knew. Fuck, she thought. There was no way out of this now. It wasn't just going to slip away. Her little emotional wobble was having real consequences.

Clammy hands rubbed down the material of her suit, but it made no difference. Danger was just staring at the back of her head. It was never a good idea to draw Draco Malfoy's attention, it always ended badly. And what was she going to do—confess? What would he do with that information? Use her. He would leverage it like he did everything else. Then send her away somewhere dank, dark and conveniently out of the way. No, he could never know. Anything was better than the truth.

It was the most uncomfortable ride she'd ever known and it got worse when they arrived and got out. His eyes were unmistakably following her, cold and calculating. And that utterly ridiculous part of her wanted to conceded, to give in and beg him to do as he wished with her, even as she knew it would never be anything that did her good. Draco Malfoy was an utter bastard and he would take advantage of her weakness, any way that suited him.

Keeping her eyes strictly in front of her, she walked to the room where the meeting was and sighed a wracking breath of relief when he disappeared inside it, taking her position further down the hall.

She was leaving herself at the mercy of the ultimate predator and it was now clear to her that this wasn't going to end well, and she could choose to do this the hard way, where she was used and abused, or find some other way.

The reprieve wasn't long enough and she suffered his cold attention all the way restaurant and then back home—not that he was obviously paying attention to her. No one would suspect, but she felt it like a vibration in the air, a danger siganl. It was like he smelled weakness in the air and had identified the source of it.

Back in her room, she considered her option, but anyway she twisted it, it came out bad. It wasn't entirely unknown that Draco would play with his victims when he felt it was deserved. If he found out, he would never make this easy on her, probably fascinated by this ridiculous state she had gotten herself in—a state which compromised her defenses. And there would be nothing she could do to stop him; she was at his mercy. She couldn't even decide what the worst possible outcome would be; they all looked bad.

No, it was better to nip this in the bud before she lay bleeding on the floor. The worst was that she knew this wouldn't just go away; it would either end explosively or be drawn out for maximum pain. She had to take action. And the only thing she could see was to leave; it was the only chance she had—but there wasn't many places he didn't have reach. If she ran, she would have to keep running and live with the risk of being caught. The Malfoys didn't tolerate disloyalty, but it would probably be better than him knowing.

The urge to pack a bag and run was strong, but she repressed it. She had to plan. If she was going to get away, she needed a plan, ideally to a place where they didn't have reach—although that is what he'd expect and where he'd look. It would be a cat and mouse game. Desertion would not be something he would ever forgive, or forget about. They had all seen what had happened to the last person who did it. She would just have to be smarter, and to cut all ties, just disappear. If she left, she would have to leave her family, this world and any future she had in it. Her parents would suffer, but nowhere near as much as she would if she stayed, no matter which of the unpleasant scenarios played out. At least this way, she would have choice, free will—and maybe that was worth the risk.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

"It appears Miss Wilkers has departed," Ramone said nervously, standing by the door, trying to appear small, which was impossible to the large man.

"Departed?" Draco said.

"Absconded."

Draco's mouth tightened and his fingers itched to destroy something. He'd known something was up with her. The suspicious behavior written all over her, and now she had enacted her plan, or maybe she was a part of some larger plan. The disloyalty burned. It was forbidden, being disloyal. "I suggest you find her then," he said icily.

Ramone left as quickly as he could, no doubt relieved he was still intact. Truth was that Draco wanted to rip someone apart. A security member leaving was a huge liability; they knew their plans, their strategies, who they dealt with. It compromised their whole operation. This could not be stood for. She had to be found and dealt with.

Draco sat down at his desk and huffed with annoyance. He didn't need this right now; it was inopportune. It was also a bit of a worry that one of the staff members weren't too frightened to take a step like this. It meant she had to be found and made an example of before others started thinking they could make their own plans too, break the contracts they signed.

But this situation was a tad more serious than a run of the mill escapee. Cassandra Wilkes could have been recruited, and that was a worry. It wouldn't be inconceivable that the rebels would target her—they had leverage.

After stewing in annoyance for a while, he finally rose and made his way out of his apartments, down to his father's study. He knocked on the heavy, lacquered door, until he heard permission to enter.

"Draco," Lucius said, sitting behind his desk, smoking a cigar and reading an Italian muggle paper. Lucius quietly absorbed information and put things together in ways other people didn't. It was what had built their empire, also what had saved Voldemort, not that the lunatic ever appreciated or understood—particularly how he was used as a vehicle, creating adverse conditions to be taken advantage of, and now left to chase his own shadows. Admittedly some of his shadows was planted, to keep him distracted and out of the way.

Dressed meticulously as he always was, Lucius folded the paper over and stared back, taking a sip of whiskey. "What's on your mind?"

"The Wilkes girl had absconded."

"Better find her then," Lucius said dismissively. The running of operations was usually not something that Lucius concerned himself with.

"Yes," Draco conceded. "But we should be aware of potential complications. This might be an indication of something larger."

"Oh," Lucius said, looking thoughtful for a moment. "Oh I see. You think she had learnt of her identity. There wouldn't be anyone alive who knows who she is. Certainly not anyone here."

"It is always a possibility, and her actions do suggest something has occurred."

"Then you had better find her," Lucius said more pointedly, "unless she serve as a new rally point for the rebels."

"I will," Draco said, not doubting his own word for a second. If he wanted to some something, he rarely failed, particularly if it was a person. The Malfoys own the magical world, and large portions of the muggle too. There weren't many places she could go.

Rising from his chair, Draco left his father and wandered downstairs, where family members rarely went, and staff now scuttled out of the way, out of sight as he passed through. "Ramone!" he called and the man appeared. "Where are her quarters?"

"This way, sir." Ramone led the way into the bowls of the building, finally stopping in front of a door in a narrow hallway. It opened to a small door to a windowless, non-descript room. It was unpleasant. He was surprised the staff lived so colorlessly.

"Has she said anything out of the ordinary lately?"

"No, sir."

"She has been acting strangely—even I could tell."

"Just a little withdrawn, but she does that sometimes. She's never done anything for us to question her loyalty."

"Except run away." There wasn't much in the room. If there had been to start with, she'd taken it with her. "I want her found. Send out demands to every avenue."

Where would she go, Draco wondered, Australia, America, Russia? The question was really: where did she expect Draco not to look? Although he didn't know her, he didn't question her intelligence and she would likely use strategies to shield herself.

-0-

Draco arrived in front of the Wilkes' house, down by Toulouse, set in a lush garden. They didn't spare any expense on the garden, he noted. This was where she grew up; a handsome house belonging to a privileged family. Not wealthy, but still a part of the system, enjoying the rewards of their loyalty.

The door opened as he walked up, an elf bowing deeply before showing him into the formal room, decorated by baroque furniture and parquet flooring. With what he knew of Cassandra, he couldn't really fit her in this room.

"Mr. Malfoy, so wonderful to see you," Mr. Wilkes started, "I mean, withstanding these circumstances," he filled in, eyes flashing in fear.

"We have been informed of what happened, and are beside ourselves. We cannot understand how this happened. She has always been such a good girl," Mrs. Wilkers said, her bouffant hairstyle so stiff it didn't shift when she moved.

"Has she been in touch?"

"Not for weeks, and there was no indication. If there was, we would have told you immediately."

Draco didn't sit down, instead wandered around the room, four eyes following everything he did. Throwing a glance back at them, he saw a smiled plastered on Mrs. Wilkers face. No, she was probably right, they would have dobbed in their daughter if there was any reason to. "Did you have regular contact with your daughter?"

"She usually called every two weeks."

So the family wasn't estranged. "Is she aware of the circumstances?"

"No, absolutely not," Mrs. Wilkes said. "We have raised her like our own. As far as we know, she believes so."

"Something must have made her suspicious, judging from her actions."

Mrs. Wilkes opened her mouth, but couldn't find anything to say. "We were even negotiating a marriage for her?"

"Without consent? This is the first I have heard of it."

"It is the very early stages," Mr. Wilkes cut in. "We needed something to inform of first."

Draco stroked his chin. He could tell they there telling the truth. Whatever she had done, her parents weren't apart of it. Still, they had to be punished. She would have known that would happen, or had she depended on him not hurting innocent parties?

"And who were you hoping to match her with?"

"Justin Routin."

Draco knew the Routin family. Midlevel clericals. Justin was probably one of the younger sons. The Routins had never been anything but loyal. "Did they know each other?"

"They had met, I believe, but not recently."

Draco suspected Justin Routin was just another person she left behind in this quest of hers. He would get to the bottom of this situation before he metered out punishment, or everyone involved. It could well be that these two staking people had no influence on this situation. This would still not do their standing any good, even if they escaped direct punishment.

"And her friends?"

"Well, she doesn't have a great many friends. Was never a popular girl. We were a bit disappointed in her in that regard. Tends to prefer books to clothes. Not that we didn't try our best," Mrs. Wilkes said. "But her training and service record has been impeccable—until now." A worried look broke through the woman's mask. They did actually care for her, he noted; although they probably felt betrayed now. This action had ruined her prospects and her relationship with her family. It was quite a bit she was giving up.

"Don't leave town," he said. Mrs. Wilkes plastered smile didn't change. "Obviously, if she gets in touch, you will inform me immediately."

"Of course," Mr. Wilkes said, "we wouldn't dream of doing otherwise."

Draco returned outside. This was a nice estate and he'd thought he'd made a good choice settling her here back then, but maybe it hadn't considering she'd thrown this life away. Now she was a player and potentially a dangerous one, a link to the past, to an era long gone. Something he'd hoped he'd prevented.

If Cassandra Wilkes was running, she had a good reason for it, something worth messing her life up for. And that was the worry. Maybe the past was coming back to haunt him. The kindness he'd shown was now having dangerous consequences. There was probably something to regret in that, or maybe he should just make sure it never had a chance to.

"I want to hear every bit of information about what the rebels are doing. The widest possible scan. If there was some trace of her, he wanted to find it.

Getting into the car, he watched out the window as they drove northward. Somehow, someone had found out who she was and were taking advantage of it. This was a mistake on her part, one that would undo the kindness he had once shown her. It just proved that kindness and mercy never paid off, even to the baby daughter of your enemies.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The street Cassandra walked down was dusty and houses sprawled around her with little uniformity, bright colors haphazardly changing down the street. Tropical heat soaked into her clothes, making them stick to her body. No one paid any particular attention to her. She'd dyed her hair dark and sunglasses kept sun from her eyes. Sure, guys tried it on, seeing a lone female walking the streets of Rio, but it they eventually melted away, getting no reaction from her. It was only when she opened her mouth that it became obviously clear that she was a foreigner, so she did her best not to say anything when she could avoid it.

Her apartment was up a crumbling set of stairs in a building that was at least a hundred years old and it hadn't been repaired since. Her apartment was small with peeling green paint, the kitchen even tinier, but it did its job. There wasn't room for much more than a bed and a couch, but the door was solid wood and a breeze flowed through if she left it open.

It was no way to live though, but she had to keep moving, staying some place a few weeks then moving on. She knew it would be like this, but she had to do it. It was only for a while, she reckoned. Over time, she would become less important and people would forget they were looking for her, well, anyone who didn't know her anyway. But maybe she was just being hopeful. She could never, ever go back to Paris, probably never Europe even.

Freedom was another whole issue to deal with. She'd never had it before—the mistress of her own domain. She decided how she spent her time. The decision was hers; she could stay inside and read all day, or wander the streets—work if she had to. Stores and cafes were always looking for people, although it was harder here as she spoke no Portuguese.

Sitting down on the couch with a large split up the plastic leather, she turned her thoughts to where she'd go next. It had been three months since she left Paris, and she had started in Canada, slowly traveling south.

Maybe it was time to skip over to Asia, but she did stand out more there. The Malfoy networks also thinned in, particularly in remote places.

But it didn't matter where she went, the constant fear and searching for someone watching her never left. That was what took a toll. That was the price her freedom cost. And the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about him. That was the obsession that had wheedled its way into her brain, torturing her relentlessly. She wondered what he was doing. What he was thinking about. Not that she had ever known. In her mind, she'd gone through every action, word or response she'd ever seen him do and tried to garner any understanding from it. He completely eluded her though. She didn't understand how he could survive being so isolated. But she knew inside was someone who wanted something else; she'd seen the hint of it. That was the thing that got her. It wasn't like he was a prisoner; there was just a part of him that didn't thrive the way he was.

Letting her head fall back along the couch's back, she surveyed the peeling paint on the ceiling. He wasn't her problem—an unsolvable riddle, because he would never be anything other than he was.

It would be dangerous to go back to Canada, although she had liked it there. Eastern Russia was an option, but not one she relished.

A tiny noise alerted her. It was the noise of someone trying to be quiet. A normal person charged up the stairs of the building without a care. This was deliberate. Rushing to the window, she looked out but saw nothing unusual in the typical manic street life below. Opening the window, she scrambled up on the roof, the escape path she'd carefully planned. Her instincts told her something wasn't right and it never served her to doubt it. Running along, she jumped over to the next building where a staircase led down to a back alley.

Now it was time to get lost in the maze of tiny streets. Running through here was a danger, because it attracted attention, so she slowed down and forced herself to walk when she was far enough away to turn and survey the street she'd just come down. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but the hairs on the back of her neck refused to settle.

She was leaving town, would take the intercity bus somewhere, just move on and never look back. There was a passport and a stash of money in another location, placed there just for a situation like this. She'd never had to enact it before, but things just felt wrong. Maybe it was just her being jumpy and paranoid, but she wasn't going to double check herself. Paranoid was better than dead.

"Hello, Cassandra." Cold dread crept up her back, making her whole skin break out in goosebumps. It wasn't just some hence men, it was him. He'd come himself, which meant the game really was up. She couldn't take him. That wasn't even a question.

The point of his wand came up and dug into the tender skin of her neck and he stepped into view, dressed entirely in black as he usually was. How the hell had he found her, but maybe she shouldn't be surprise. Maybe it had always been inevitable.

Automatically, she pointed the blade she held in her hand to his gut.

He turned his head as if he was regarding her, not even a sign of concern in his eyes. "Do you think you have a chance?"

Of course she didn't. He knew how to heal, and the damage she would do to her would be far worse—fatal, in fact. It would end things quickly—but she didn't want to hurt him. Even now, when he was going to do some serious damage to her, she didn't want to hurt him. This whole thing was just fucked up, but it was still true.

"I think you and I need to have a little chat," he said, grabbing her by the neck and apparating them. A blink of an eye and a strike, and she slipped into dark unconsciousness.

-0-

Pain was what her mind registered first. Her temple ached. It was all she knew for a moment. Nausea assaulted her when she opened her eyes, seeing a parquetted floor. She tried to move her hands, but they wouldn't shift. Blinking to clear the fog, she tried to take inventory. Her hands were tied and she was standing, a pillar behind her.

Black shoes and pants came into view. He was here. A rush of adrenaline shot into her bloodstream and she looked up.

He stood a few feet away from her with his arms crossed. They were in the … ballroom at the Malfoy headquarters. They'd crossed the ocean while she'd been unconscious. No wonder she felt a little groggy.

"Now then, let's have that little chat, shall we?" he said quietly.

Cassandra bit her lips together, and his eyes moved to the lips, observing the action. He raised an eyebrow at the defiance.

"So, you woke up one morning and decided to run away? Somehow I don't think so. You're going to tell me the whole sordid tale."

Over her dead body, she said in her mind. The truth was something she would never admit.

He stepped closer and she could see every part of his face. His cold, gray eyes, the dark eyebrows, the haughty nose and the firm lips. As afraid as she was, she couldn't stop looking. She'd seen his face a million times in her mind the last three months and here he was, real, flesh and blood. It seemed unfathomable. She could see the pulse in his neck, the telltale sign there was a human being standing in front of her, but no part of that inner person that wished and wanted was on show now.

He shot a cruciatus curse at her and she screamed, her mind exploding in pain.

"Obviously Brazil was just somewhere to lie low," he said once she got her breath back.

Defiantly, she leaned back on the column behind her and silently defied him.

He smiled. "You will tell me absolutely everything in the end. So you might as well save both of our time."

It kind of felt ironic that he was the one torturing her. Everything about him was torture, sharp edges and pain, from the moment she'd fallen in love with him. Perhaps that was her just desserts, for being so utterly ridiculous. Could it really have ended any other way?

Another cruciatus curse hit her and again pain ripped her mind apart. It tired her out and her head hung down for a moment until she collected herself.

He was close, she could see down his body. He smelled spicy, an expensive cologne she recognized but hadn't noticed before. As awful as she was, she couldn't bring herself to hate him, and maybe she hated herself for that. "Maybe I should start on your fingers, take them one by one."

"You're a horrible person," she said, her voice rough.

"Yes, I am."


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Cassandra stood with her feet apart, her back straight against the column, looking defiant. She wore dark green pants and boots. The thing about people on the run, particularly women, was that they never wore shoes they couldn't run in, which showed that Cassandra knew full well she was on the run. And she'd spooked easily, resulting in the chase.

"I actually had to pay quite a bit of money to have your hiding place uncovered," he admitted.

She didn't say anything, just stared at him. Most people would be terrified at this point, would have broken already, but she hadn't. She just watched him, in some way like she'd completely accepted her fate. Now why was that?

She wasn't foolish enough to be unafraid, to not realize what was going on. She out of anyone knew what he did to people who went against them, unswayed by pleas, offers, promises or horror. She knew full well, but she was accepting this. People only acted like this when they felt they were doing the only thing they could, when they were ready to make the sacrifice.

"Who are you protecting?" he asked, twisting his head to the side to watch her reaction. This level of acceptance can only mean she was sacrificing herself to save someone else. The problem was there had been no sign of another person in her life. There had been so secret meetings in café's in town, hidden rendezvous or illicit communication. Every part of her life had been examined and there had been nothing there. Whoever she'd been dealing with had been extraordinarily discreet, leaving no trace at all, which was unusual.

"A lover perhaps?" he said, bringing his fingers up to her neck, tracing them down along the soft skin. And she let him, which was confounding. Being tied up didn't normally stop people from trying to evade, but she didn't. Had she so completely accepted her fate she was making no attempts to avoid it? This again was unusual behavior. All along, it was her behavior that gave her away.

The righteous indignation was completely absent. If she had learnt of her true identity, there would be fire in her eyes, curses flowing form her mouth, hatred blazing in her eyes, but there wasn't. There was just an absence that he couldn't understand.

He brought his finger higher, tracing it down her cheek, just to see how she'd react. She was beautiful, her skin perfect. Any normal person would assume he was going to hurt her; he had so far. His fingers traced down to the corner of her lips. Finally she closed her eyes and look her face away. They'd just played chicken in some way he didn't completely understand. What the hell was going on?

What would she do if he gave her a wand right now? Would she fight? Would she come to life if she had a weapon in her grip? A perverse part of him wanted to know. He wouldn't of course, but there was a part of him that wanted to test her, prod her and see a reaction, even at his own expense. This curiosity was something he hadn't experienced before.

For once, he didn't know a way forward. Pain weakened her physically, but didn't weaken her resolve. He could zap her into unconsciousness, but that rarely served any purpose. The only reaction he'd gotten from her was when he touched her lips. Touch itself didn't scare her, which knocked out some less savory possibilities. That was also contradictory.

Cutting fingers would be messy and it wasn't something he particularly enjoyed, but they were at a stalemate. So far, he'd found no leverage over her, except maybe her parents, but their part of elite society, there were limitations in what he could do, and he wasn't sure she would crack considering she'd deserted them.

"Staring at her doesn't seem to undo her," he heard a droll voice and turned to see Scorpius sitting in an armchair, slouching with his leg over the side. "Is that a leaf out of the conscious torturing handbook? Did you ask her nicely?"

Draco hadn't noticed Scorpius come in. He'd been too absorbed in the puzzle before him to notice. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be?" Draco asked.

"Not particularly. Actually I came to tell you that you are expected at the Sybcavel's this evening, but you seem too distracted by in your new toy. Hello, Cassandra," he said getting up and leisurely walking over. Scorpius had always had a more cavalier attitude to everything, making light of every situation. "Grandfather will not be happy if you're late."

Annoyance flared through Draco. He hated these events, insipid people fawning over themselves.

"But I see you have something much more diverting planned tonight," Scorpius said. "Although I'm not sure grandfather will take it as an excuse.

"This isn't about diversion, Scorpius. It's about protecting the family."

"In that case, I think you better do more than tickle her."

Draco's annoyance wasn't abating. He wasn't tickling her. Putting heavily his hand on her breastbone and he brought his wand up under her chin. "No, we were just getting started." His eyes sought hers and there was that same resignation there.

Scorpius stepped closer to Cassandra, lifting his hand to her face and she evaded it, her eyes darting down suspiciously to it. Scorpius smiled incredulously, pulling his hand back, watching her more closely. Alright, Draco wasn't the only one who observed something unusual here. "Oh," he finally said, apparently comprehending something.

It was irritating that Scorpius had just understood something about this. Cassandra's eyes were on the floor as if they weren't there, as if there wasn't a hand pressing on her chest.

"She's in love with you," Scorpius said. It was the most absurd thing Draco had ever heard and it made him wonder at the mental state of his son.

"No," Cassandra finally said, incredulity laced into her voice too. Now she speaks. But something in her eyes betrayed her.

Draco pulled his hand back from her as if she'd burnt him. No, it couldn't be true. He just stared at her and she stared back. "No," she said and for a moment he believed her for the reason that he wanted to.

This could not be true. It was preposterous and completely illogical. Completely illogical meant it wasn't true, his mind told him. Illogical always meant it was a lie.

He still couldn't help goose bumps from spreading up his arms. No, had Scorpius lost his mind?

"Well, that's new," Scorpius said, leaning into her. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

She looked at Scorpius like he was diseased, then turned her face away. "I might have fallen in love with someone dead who didn't give a shit about me, but you fell in love with him," Scorpius said. "My situation might be bad, but you're fucked." Scorpius laughed and walked away, leaving a still silence in the cavernous room.

Draco was dumbfounded, staring at Cassandra, who had her eyes cast down to the floor. "Is this true?"

"No," she said, refusing to look up.

With all his resources, he'd found no trace of conspiracy, no trace of accomplices, or even of a plan of attack. There had been nothing amongst her things in Rio that suggested even an attempt to hurt the family. Of course, there could be a second place where she kept information like that, but she'd been watched long enough to root something like that out.

Scorpius accusation was the one thing that fit, but it was too strange to … How the hell had this happened? How could this happen? There were no answers. He was old enough to be her father. In fact, he'd been the one who'd carried her tiny and sleeping from her cot after he'd killed her parents. That time, those actions, had signified a change for him, a line crossed where he knew there had been no going back. He'd committed himself to being a person without redemption. He hadn't had the heart to kill her. Even in that moment, there was a level of innocence even he would not trespass against, and she had been it. Instead, he'd dropped her off with the Wilkes, who had promised to raise her in the old ways. She didn't know this; she couldn't. If she'd found out, she certainly wouldn't have talked herself into being in love with him.

Draco didn't even believe in love. It was a notion weak people clinged to to give meaning to their lives. And yet she'd run, which was never less than a lethal choice. She knew it was a secret she needed to protect, believing herself in love despite herself. Her strange behavior before leaving even fit now, and the action she'd chosen had been to run. She obviously felt the threat in this.

By her actions, he should kill her. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?" he asked, dropping his wand down, still felt dumbstruck at this revelation. "How …?" he started, not even able to put words to the outrageousness of this all. How could she even talk herself into having feelings for him? People feared him. It was universal. Then again, she had run, which did fit—more scared of her feelings than for the retribution he would wreak on her. Maybe she'd prefer the punishment for running over the punishment for loving him.

"You're the only one I ever showed mercy to," he said and she looked up, a haunted look in her eyes. It might not be entirely true, on the odd occasion he'd shown mercy, but not in the way he'd done for her when she was small and completely defenseless. She didn't know. The confusion in her expression more than proved it. That love would die in an instance if she really knew he was the one who killed her family and ripped her life apart. Rose Weasley. She didn't even know her name.

He should kill her, but the guilt still sat in his chest, surviving from a time he still felt guilt. That time was long gone, but he still couldn't bring to snuff her life out.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

The car felt small when Cassandra stepped in, wearing her normal navy suit. They were off for a meeting somewhere across town. Both Lucius and Draco were in the back and she was guarding them, stepping back into her life like nothing had happened. Draco had insisted, shrinking from her as Scorpius left. He'd looked at her like she'd betrayed him, and he'd refused to look at her for a while, until he had walked behind her and loosened the ties that held her there. She'd felt his fingers along hers, the warm of him still surprising.

After expecting death, 'go to your room' was a bit of an anticlimax, but she had obliged, feeling a bit surreal and shell shocked. In truth, she hadn't known what to expect, but this hadn't been it. It was as if he didn't know what to do with her and as a result had chosen inaction.

It was unbearable, going back into the basement and finding her room searched but otherwise the same. Someone had gone through her belongings and she knew in her gut that Draco had, pried her life open for his scrutiny. She felt both violated and exposed, and she lay down on her bed, drawing her knees up. She'd never intended on revealing this secret, had been prepared to take it to the grave, but it had been ripped out of her hands with such certainty and precision it left no room for argument.

Apparently there had been something about her that told Scorpius the truth, while Draco hadn't seen it—because he didn't know what he was looking for. She'd seen the shock on his face, those few unguarded moments.

This whole situation was mortifying and she had no idea what the price would be. Undoubtedly there would be one. Or maybe it was all too embarrassing for Draco to actually acknowledge, and it, her issue, would just be ignored.

Her mind returning to the present, she suppressed a deep sigh as she sat in the front passenger seat of the family vehicle, again something Ramone had insisted on. Lucius spoke in the back about a legal issue that stood in their way, mentioning a loophole that could be twisted to suit their purposes. Draco didn't speak, which suited her fine, because she felt his voice up her spine. He was out of sight, sitting behind her, but she felt him nonetheless.

What kind of person did it make her? In love with a monster? Because it was that little spark of humanity in a being that seemed entirely lost, as if that little spark was worth so very much, shining in such stark surroundings. Was it because she didn't want him to lose it? Redemption was beyond hope for someone like him—she knew that intellectually, but there was something in her that didn't respond to reason, only hope.

The driver pulled over by a large, stone building, ornate decorations littered the façade. She got out and opened the door for him, forcing herself to look away as he rose from inside the car. Butterflies rioted in her stomach as he moved past and she closed the door behind him.

"Ah, Miss Wilkes," Lucius said, walking around the car. "It seems you have been welcomed into the fold again," he said with his customary directness. He turned to Draco to find an explanation, but Draco only looked away. "I must admit this _is_ unusual."

Lucius' gaze returned to her and she couldn't help feeling flustered under the cold scrutiny. Heaven knew what Lucius assumed at that moment regarding how she had escaped punishment. It was impossible to explain in light of how traitors were typically treated—yet she appeared to have escaped punishment all together. Who knew what assumptions they had all drawn? They didn't perhaps understand that just being here was punishment.

"We will be late," Draco finally said, refusing to elaborate.

"Yes," Lucius said turning his regard to Draco, who ignored the searching consideration. "Can't have that."

Cassandra walked behind them as they moved into the building, trying to keep her mind distracted from relentless thoughts. They said love was madness, and it really was, especially if you didn't want to be in love. It overcame you, against your best judgment.

They walked up a set of stairs in a cavernous hall, out soft footsteps echoing up the wall before we reached a heavy oak door.

Ramone appeared by her side, looking stoic as always. He hadn't really spoken to her since her return and she was pretty sure he didn't want her there. "You are to go in, stand against the wall and not interfere in any way."

"What?" she said. She was never invited inside; that was normally Ramone's domain.

"Just do as you're told," he said sharply and she tentatively took some steps in through the door into a large office with mirrors and gilt around the walls, the remnants of a different era. Draco and Lucius sat in large chairs and were served drinks by a waiter in white. Why was she here? What was this? What was the purpose behind this change? This directive could only have come from Draco. Ramone would not have chosen this; he would have placed her as far from the family as possible. The thought occurred to her that maybe Draco didn't trust her out of his sight, believing she would run away again.

Running away again seemed utterly pointless. She'd done her very best and he'd still found her. It had proved impossible to evade him, even with all the steps she had taken to obscure and protect herself. Wherever she went, he would find her. There were no defenses she could employ with him, not physically, and now not emotionally. She was utterly in his power; the thing she had feared so very much.

It wasn't her job to listen to the meeting, so she tuned out, her eyes lingering exactly where she didn't want them too, totally cognizant of the endorphins that flooded her brain whenever she looked at him. His back was to her and she was stuck staring at the back of his head. At times, he would turn slightly and she could see the curve of his jaw.

-0-

They returned home, the car pulling in and again she got out first to open the door for him, going through the exact same painful routine. Once inside, they all dispersed and Draco walked slowly toward his study.

Through her sluggish brain, she was too slow to move, watching him as he went, soon to disappear, but at the door he turned. With a slight panic, she noticed they were alone now, the hall empty of the people who had been there seconds before. His eyes met hesr and she felt the current flowing when he looked at her. "You don't have to watch me," she said and he raised his eyebrow as if she said was absurd. "I mean, you don't have to keep tabs on me."

"Don't I?" he said without inflection.

"My secret is out," she admitted, feeling foolish and uncertain, and raw, her voice threatening to break.

He only stared at her and she grew increasingly uncomfortable.

"I'm just saying I don't really have a reason to run now."

"Don't you?"

Flashes of painful longing and twisting anxiety stretched before her and she couldn't stop her uncertainty showing on her face. That was the worst part of this: she was too raw. She was unable to hide her emotions because they felt so large and threatening, taking over her whole body.

"All the same, I prefer to keep you in sight."

He didn't trust her. Why would he? Not that he trusted anyone, and he certainly didn't care if she felt uncomfortable.

"I thought perhaps it would be best if you reassigned me."

He let go of the brass handle and stepped toward her. Her stomach clenched violently. "No, I think not," he said. She looked up into his eyes and they were just as cold as always, staring right back at her. She felt like a deer caught in headlights, unable to look away, again endorphins flooding her brain, urging he to trust him.

"I … this, compromises me."

He didn't respond for a moment and she had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth next. "That is for you to deal with," he said and withdrew, taking his attention away.

That's unfair, she wanted to shout, but maybe this was her punishment after all. All told, it wasn't a bad one for impact. What she wanted to be tantalizingly close and always too far away, too remote. He was cruel, but then she'd always knew he would be if he found out.

She both did and didn't want him to disappear into his study. Her being was split in two, the rational, who knew this was the most idiotic, dangerous thing to every happen to her, and the irrational, who just wanted to be with him.

Closing her eyes, she turned and headed downstairs, where she knew the other members of the security detail would be resentful and suspicious. They didn't want her around and she couldn't blame them. Even hidden away in her room, she was tortured by desires and wants piercing into her consciousness relentlessly. There was no peace to be had anywhere. Her sleep was stolen by him as were her waking hours. Work was absolutely no distraction, especially as he didn't trust her out of his sight. It was all exhausting.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

What did love make a person? Visibly there was no difference, other than she avoided his eyes whenever she was near. If hate was the intense staring, love avoided all contact—both opposed from what was logical. On one level Draco was fascinated by it, but on another level he knew there was danger there. He felt it in his bones, a threat he couldn't articulate or even identify. She posed no threat to him, but there was still a pervasive unease.

She wore her hair in a tight bun, the soft red tones shining in the sunlight. She was unadorned in any way, no jewelry or make up. Make up wasn't necessary for her. Thinking back, he couldn't remember seeing her in any other way. Not that he'd really paid attention before.

Her expression was stark. There was little doubt that she wished not to be here. This love was something she suffered but didn't embrace. Not that there was anything to embrace. Of all the people in the world, he was the least appropriate to fall in love with, which fascinated him even more.

What did she do now that she was out of sight? Did she try to kill this love? Did she pine? Did she dream of him? A rush of something passed through him; he couldn't identify it. This was, as far as he was concerned, completely unchartered territory and he didn't know what to do with this knowledge. Love was something he knew very little about. This affliction that struck people.

Picking up the decanter, he poured himself a measure of whiskey. He wanted her here, to watch her, to observe, but he had no call for insisting on her presence. He sat down on the chair by the fire in his study. Winter was not giving its claim of Paris yet. The flames danced like a woman set on seducing. That he knew about. He'd seen every form of it. Cassandra, on the other hand, wasn't trying to draw him in; she was trying to get away. Again an emotion flushed through his mind then fleeted.

Today she'd stood in the room as they met with the muggle civilian administration, still as a mouse, but Draco was aware of her presence behind him. He felt her eyes on him when his back was turned. That in itself wasn't unusual, but her intentions were. Intentions were not the right word, because she had no intentions. It was him that had drawn her back here, returned everything to normal, made her resume her duties. He didn't quite understand why, but he had. There had been other options, but this was the one that had entered his mind and insisted.

The door to Draco's study swung open. Only a family member would be so brass as to enter without knocking. Scorpius appeared wearing a tux with an undone bow tie hanging down limply from his neck.

"You have been out," Draco said, pleased that Scorpius was finally leaving the house, resuming his life after the incident with the ghost—an event that had hit his son hard. Scorpius still refused to talk about what happened, but being confronted by one of his victims had had a profound impact on the young man. Draco had been worried that Scorpius' resilience wouldn't return. Him again finding the company of his friends was a good sign, Draco supposed. He'd never wanted Scorpius to become as isolated as he himself was.

"Yes," Scorpius said and walked further into the room, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet, until he settled on leaning against the large mahogany desk. "You've put her back on duty."

"Who?" Draco asked, knowing full well Scorpius was talking about Cassandra. This was Draco's way of uninviting Scorpius from talking about this incident.

Scorpius pinched his lower lip and glowered at him. "You know full well who I'm talking about," he smiled. "But if you want to go there, let's. The one who's probably right now touching herself while thinking of you."

"Don't be so crude," Draco said sharply. He was certainly not a prude, but that statement offended in every way.

Scorpius sighed and crossed his arms. "If it had been a few months ago, I would be astounded that you haven't taken her yet."

"And now?"

Another deep intake of breath. He was silent for a while, his eyes open and watching. "You've never had a chance like this before. She loves you. You aren't deluded enough to not know how rare that is."

"A fleeting infatuation."

"No, an overused word for a very rare event."

"Scorpius, this is tiresome."

"Claim her," Scorpius urged earnestly.

"This is ridiculous," Draco said, rising from his chair. He was not having this discussion.

"I would give anything to be in your place," Scorpius called as Draco walked out of his study. He wasn't listening to this. "Don't let this go because of your pride."

This had nothing to do with pride. Scorpius didn't understand. This thing with the ghost had made Scorpius morose and ridiculous. It would be something they would have to address. Scorpius had grown soft.

Draco entered his apartments. Tiredness stung his eyes and Scorpius' suggestion was irked. The boy didn't understand. He lived in some rose-colored version of the world, where love existed. It was distressing that Scorpius had grown so … unrealistic. Even if it were possible in some massive suspension of the true nature of the world, there were still a multitude of issues, not least the damage he had cause to her life, most of which she weren't aware of.

Would Scorpius paper over those issues? Gloss over them like they weren't there, never mention that there had been another life she had been intended for? She was the child of the enemy and she had lost everything of her life and existence, her past and future because of it. To have her love too felt like a betrayal on an unprecedented level. Would Scorpius be cold and self-serving enough to overlook such duplicity?

She would never know. He could take her love and ignore the qualms. He had never bowed to qualms, but then he'd never conducted such a deep betrayal. Enemies typically signed up for their roles, the reason he hadn't killed her as a baby. She had been innocent and effectively she still was.

Love wasn't real. He had to believe her infatuation would pass. Love didn't exist. But why did this feel like danger? It was an absurd reaction. How could feelings constitute danger, to the point when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as if an enemy was approaching at his back?

Taking his jacket off, he sat down on the couch. The drink was still in his hand and he took a deep draft, feeling the warming burn at the back of his throat, but it didn't address the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. When he closed his eyes and leaned his head of the back of the couch, he became aware of that feeling, the craving for softness. That was the danger, the lure, that craving. It was a siren's call if he ever know one. The threat that led people astray, the wanting for softness. It was the only way he could describe it. It had always been there in his most quiet moment, but he had never paid it any heed. Now it seemed to have recognized an avenue and it reasserted itself with what effort it could muster. It make his fingers itch for warm flesh, but if he turned his thoughts to the women he engaged to come to his room, his stomach churned in revolt.

Whatever insanity had taken hold of her was speaking to a spark of insanity in him, that part that responded, growing insistent. It could not be. It would never be. Yet somehow he had insisted she remain within twenty feet of him at all times, except when they were back here. She belonged downstairs and he had no recourse for demanding her presence. There was a limit to the insanity he was willing to tolerate. It snuck in unbidden when a small change meant nothing, like insisting she ride in his car, be part of the detail that followed into the actual meeting.

These things had to stop. He was betraying himself with these small inconsistencies.

It didn't stop him from wanting to call her up here now, have her walk in through the doors. It had been simple when he'd suspected her of disloyalty. He'd needed to watch her then, but he had been watching for the wrong things. Now he had no excuse for insisting on her presence, but he still did.

Tension sat in his shoulders, in his body. He tried to relax. Shoes came off and he lay back on the couch, placing his head on the arm rest. His hand over his stomach and he sighed. This was compromising him, taking over his mindspace. It had to be processed and then let go. He was just going through the processing phase. That was all. This would pass.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

The hexes were flying, the rebels were stronger than they'd anticipated. Cassandra retreated into the back of the building, into a room which at some point had been someone's bedroom. They were up on the third floor so it restricted the exits. This was supposed to have been a small cell, but it was much larger, and there had been prepared, having laid traps.

Something blew in her eyes; it stung. Desperately Cassandra tried to wipe away the stuff that blurred her vision, blinking furiously and using her sleeve to try to wipe it away. A figure was coming toward her and she aimed her wand at him. A blow hit her in the shoulder, flying her back against a wall. Slowly her vision was returning, but hitting the wall had knocked her wand out of her hand. Diving for it, she received another blow in the leg. Pain searched through her whole body.

Crawling, she made it behind an over-turned bed, but the three guys who had her cornered knew she was there. Searching with her sore eyes, she found her wand about three feet away. She would have to dive for it, except they expecting her to do just that.

Her breath was heavily, overpowering any other noise around her. She tried to listen, hearing steps coming towards her. This was it, she was unarmed and corners. This was the exact position not to get yourself into and here it was. Perhaps it wasn't a surprise. If you fought, there would eventually come a time when you lost, and loosing had a high price.

Swallowing hard, she reached around for something she could use as a weapon for when they shoved this bed away, finding only a ceramic mug. She grabbed the handle, holding it tight in her fist, fully aware that it would serve as a poor weapon. Still, she would go down fighting. So this was it, her time was up. Please don't make it hurt, she prayed.

Firing started and she shut her eyes. A scream ripped through the space, but it wasn't hers. Someone were fighting the people who had her cornered. Initially she'd thought they were firing at her, but nothing hit. The bed didn't really provide much of a barrier other than to her vision.

Gripping the mug, she held her breath as the bed moved. Time's up, she told herself, but it was Draco's face that appeared when the bed was thrown aside. The rebels were dead on the floor.

A gasp of surprise drew into her lungs and she pushed away from the spot where she was supposed to die, rushing into his arms. He smelled of leather and male, solid next to her body. She was supposed to be dead now, but he had saved her.

A grip on her arm pushed her away. "How could you let yourself get cornered like that?" he said viciously, his grip on her arm painful.

"They got me in the eyes with something," she said between heavy breaths. "I couldn't see."

"You were this close to getting yourself killed." He sounded furious. "How am I supposed to trust you to take care of yourself if you get yourself cornered?"

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling ashamed and embarrassed. For both the situation and how she had rushed into his arms. He had saved her. Her insides twisted with the knowledge, a part of her mind searching for meaning.

"Make your way outside and stay there," he ordered sharply and turned away from her, his black robes swinging behind him. As he stepped around the corner, he engaged someone, firing mercilessly. She heard a body drop to the floor, but instinctively knew it was whoever he was fighting.

Cassandra's heart beat so hard it hurt and adrenaline coursed through her body. She needed to fight; she should be fighting with the others—that was her job, but he'd told her to go outside, a direct order, which superseded everything else.

She wasn't a coward to be sent off. People died in these fights and today she had been unlucky. She should have died, instead he'd rushed in and saved her. His words returned to her, not trusting her to take care of herself. He regretted losing an asset, that was all. They were replaceable, but it took effort to train someone.

Fighting continued around her and she stepped toward the hall. She spotted Remy engaging with a rebel as another came behind him. She fired at the one sneaking up on him, the man dropping to the floor. Remy didn't have time to barely more than acknowledged the action and kept fighting. She needed to fight, not to go stand outside like a naughty child. But she was also obliged to do what Draco told her to.

The others on the detail didn't really trust her anymore, and now neither did Draco. It felt awful, but she understood; she had broken her contract and if she broke that, they figured she were open to doing anything.

She kept standing in the hall, slowly moving toward the staircase down. There was a lull in the fighting. Some was still occurring upstairs, but it sounded like the fight was over. Quickly, she rushed downstairs. She had better be there when Draco got out.

Sunlight stung her eyes and she frowned as she stood by the head car. The others started to emerge, including Draco who headed right for the back door of the car.

"Get in," he said harshly as he passed her, and she complied, feeling even worse. She'd failed him somehow, failed in general. It stung worse than the knowledge that her life would now be over if it hadn't been for him.

Everyone in the car were silent, which was typical after a fight. Adrenalin still ran high, but there wasn't much to say. Typically they went out after a fight. It was needed to burn the energy and adrenaline. Drinking, fucking, whatever you had to do. Everyone had different coping mechanisms.

The ride wasn't long and they arrived outside the Malfoy residence. Cassandra got out with the others, feeling Draco's presence behind her as she walked up the steps to the entrance. She always felt him, now also able to remember the feel of pressing her body to his. Heat flared up her cheeks. A reaction that had been grossly inappropriate and entirely unprofessional. He'd pushed her away, gently, but firmly. She just wanted to sit down on her bed and sink her head into her hands.

They entered the hall, and everyone started to dissipate, seeking wherever they spent time when they weren't needed.

"Not you," Draco said and Cassandra found him looking at her. Everyone was looking too, but soon realized it was none of their business. They probably thought this was part of her punishment for running away, and just desserts. She looked around and they were alone in the cavernous hall. "In the training room," he said and turned, walking ahead of her with firm, long strides.

As she walked into the room, he unhooked his robes and lay them across a chair, leaving him in a white shirt and waist coat.

"Your training has been remiss," he said, taking his gloves off.

"I had an unlucky day."

"There is no such thing," he said and turned to her, his eyes blazing. She couldn't look away. Stepping forward he shot a hex, bright with energy. She deflected it, feeling the power in it pushing her back. Why was he doing this? Was this some form of punishment?

Part of her was ecstatic to be here, just be in his presence, to feel his eyes on her. Another was utterly terrified and it wasn't that he was shooting hexes at her.

He stopped moving toward her. "Were you trying to harm yourself?"

A smiled tugged at her lips. The thought had occurred to her, but no today. "No," she said. "They blinded me and got the upper hand."

"You need to do better."

There was nothing she could say. He flicked another hex at her and she ducked out of the way. There was nowhere to hide in this room, just floor and mirrors. Then suddenly he stepped away, turning his back on her, pacing back and forward across the wooden floor. "What am I supposed to do with you? You would have died today. I can't watch you when we're in a fight."

"Then don't watch."

He turned, facing her. Again she felt his eyes like a punch in the gut.

"There is no reason you should feel responsible to," she said, looking away and then down at the floor. She had developed these feelings and she was the one compromising herself. If there are any consequences, she should bear them alone.

She wanted this to stop, her heart ached, but he wasn't letting her go, slip away to lick her wounds.

He shot another hex and she dodged it, deflect another.

"You're not fighting," he yelled.

"I can't fight you," she yelled back. He raised his eyebrows at her impetuousness.

"And why not?"

She dropped her wand, feeling utterly exasperated. "Because I can't. My instincts won't let me fight you." It was the raw, honest truth. Of the things she wanted to do, fighting him, keeping him away were not remotely close.

He moved closer, watching her intently. She could see his legs in her field of vision. "You need to stop this. I am the least appropriate person you should have feelings for."

A hopeless laugh escaped her. "Thank you for the advice. You need to stop defending me."

He only glared at her, his gray eyes deep and mesmerizing. She forced her gaze away. "I would have done that for anyone on my team," he said.

"Would you? Really? Why am I here? Why do you keep me within six feet any time we leave the building?"

"Because I don't trust you."

"Are you sure, because we've established quite well that I am incapable of raising my wand to you. You keep me here. Why are you keeping me near you?" It was a question that had sat forefront in her mind for days. "I'm not the one keeping me here, you are. What do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything."

"Then let me go," she shouted.

"No."

"You can't keep me like this; I can't function. I don't sleep, I can't eat. And I am no good as security. I compromise you, I compromise myself." It was utterly unfathomable why he was doing this. "What do you want from me?" she said as raw her she felt.

"I told you: I don't want anything."

Something clicked into place. "I don't believe you." Clarity was sweeping painful and cloying fogginess from her mind.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, Miss Wilkes."

She took a step forward and he took one back. It spoke a thousand words. He feared her. It was the most absurd thing she'd ever observed. What threat could she possibly pose to him? He feared her, but he wouldn't lose her. There was something he wanted from her, but wouldn't let himself have.

"I love you," she said, more to see how he reacted. It was true, but it wasn't something she felt comfortable admitting, even as he knew it.

He didn't move. "Miss Wilkes. I'm a stone cold killer." He looked up at her with complete seriousness.

"You don't have to be."

"This is what I am."

"You're more than that. There's more when you think no one's looking. I've seen it."

He just stared at her, a tight expression on his face.

"What are you doing this for?" she said, indicating around her. "There is nothing here. It leads to nothing. Power is just power, it leads to nothing. You can walk away."

He looked pained for a moment. "I can't."

"Yes, you can. There is nothing stopping you. Come with me. Let's just go and never come back. We don't need anything," she beseeched him. She could see that part of him now, the part that wanted to escape—that rawness was in her eyes now. That was the part that had called her with such strength she couldn't have escaped. That's why she was here, to save him, to provide him with an avenue out.

She stepped closer and he looked down, refusing to give her his eyes. "We'll run, we'll never come back. Just be with me. This happened for a reason. It's supposed to be."

His face as drawn and when he looked up his eyes were haunted. Leaning up, she touched his lips with hers, feeling spears of desire shooting down her whole body, suffusing her mind. She'd fought so hard against this, but it was no use. She belonged to him. Her eyes closed and he felt him yield to the kiss, letting her in. The softness was so sweet she felt she'd implode from it. Pleasure flooded her entire existence. Her tongue caressed his, her lips moving against mouth. He tasted divine. With urgency, his hands now clenched her to him, kneading at her back.

Sharply, he stepped back, pulled away. Her mind screaming its loss.

"I can't. Not with you." The statement felt like a punch in the gut. It physically hurt, threatening her knees. "There are things in my past that I can't overcome."

No, he couldn't be pulling away, not when they were so right together. His words slowly sunk into her mind. Yes, there were probably a million things he'd done that weighed on his mind. There was no getting around the fact that he'd been a brutal man, a fighter without mercy, but there was a part of him that wished to be free, and that meant something.

"I am not a good man," he said. "I have done terrible things and there are obstacles I will never be able to overcome. I can never be with you." His voice sounded coarse, but there was no room for doubt in what he was saying. "I have kept you here selfishly, knowing there is nothing I can offer you."

"That's not true. There's nothing that can't be forgiven."

"No, there really is," he said with a smile, stepping forward and cupping her face in his hand. "Somethings must be paid for."

She didn't understand.

His thumbs stroked down her cheeks. "You should run now. Go. I won't chase you this time. Forget about me and this, and just turn your back."

New tears stung her eyes, and apparently she'd already been crying because her cheeks were sodden.

"You will go and you will forget," he continued. "I'm releasing you."

It was what she'd asked for a few minutes earlier, but for a short time she'd seen another possibility, one he wasn't going to take. It ripped her to pieces, forced the air out of her lungs. She couldn't stay. Seeing him hurt too much. This was now an all or nothing thing and he'd chosen nothing. She closed her eyes, fighting the hurt that threatened to consumer every part of her.

"You should change your name and become someone new. You should call yourself Rose." He studied her face, which was now an utter mess. "It suits you." Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead, then took a step back.

He was leaving no room for argument and she knew that it was the best thing—if he wasn't going to let them be together. It still hurt like hell. If she'd thought things were painful before, they were agony now and the only way she could ever get past this was to be away from here—from him.

Pulling herself together, she walked past him to the door.

"And Rose," he said. She turned to look at him. "Don't ever come back to Paris." She stared at him for a moment. "Promise."

She nodded, taking one last look before leaving.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

The garden was frozen outside, bare branches showing no signs of life. Frost formed crystals on the grass, sparkling in the light of nighttime Paris. It was beautiful and quiet.

"How are you?" Draco heard his father's voice behind him.

"Well," Draco said. "Is there something that needs to be done?" Normally his father sought him out when something had to be taken care of.

"No," Lucius said and moved to Draco's desk, leaning back and crossing his arms. Lucius sighed auditably and said nothing.

"How are the negotiations going?" Draco finally said, uncomfortable with the silence.

"Very slowly. The muggles are digging in on issues."

Draco didn't honestly care. Agreements were part of his father's job, Draco just dealt with thing when someone didn't adhere to them.

"The new girl, Miss Samra, is proving particularly difficult. Feels the need to argue the air she breathes."

"Must be tiresome."

"It is what it is," Lucius said. Silence settled for a moment. "Where is she?"

Draco knew Lucius was referring to Cassandra, or Rose more accurately. They hadn't spoken about her departure, but Lucius hadn't argued when she suddenly disappeared and no one was tracking her down. His father had left this issue to Draco's judgement. "Sydney."

"Perhaps it does you little good to keep tabs on her."

"I want to know she is faring well."

"She is none of your concern." That statement alone showed that Lucius had some understanding of what this all meant.

Draco drew in breath and exhaled again. At this point, he wasn't able to completely let her go—maybe in the future. But for right now, he needed to know she was alright. He'd gone so far as to pave the way for her, ensuring a good job was offered and that a nice apartment became available at a reasonable price.

He just needed to know she was out there roaming free, slowly absorbed into a new life, a happy life with lightness and beauty. Before long she would meet someone and that would hurt. "Scorpius doesn't understand."

"He is young and idealistic."

Perhaps he would never stop watching her, Draco conceded. His own future was dark, cold and bleak, and he wasn't ready to embrace it fully. He might be better off if he did, but suspected the pain was better than nothingness.

"Eventually this will fade," Lucius said, straightening and walking to the door. "In time."

Draco feared it fading, feared what he'd become—but he was damned either way, he couldn't have her, his barren soul wouldn't survive, unable to embrace his own hypocrisy, and he couldn't let her go. Maybe this tentative limbo would be all he ever had, and he would cherish it for as long as it provided a pithy means of holding back the darkness.

A/N I am interested to hear your thoughts. Obviously there is a certain hopelessness in these stories, which was always the intention. There characters are generally too undeserving of a happy ending. Is it too heavy to read? Lucius is next, oh dear, he's in for a rough ride. Poor thing.


	27. Chapter 27

Lucius

Chapter 27

Draco was still distracted by his own loss. It was unfortunate, but Lucius knew these things could not always be controlled. He had been there once, a long time ago when he was young. It had ended badly, and it had almost killed him with distraction and weakness. Since, he had sworn to never go there again, and the oath had served him well.

His marriage had perhaps been cold, but it had suited him. Narcissa had given him a son without expecting much more. She had been perfect that way, eventually succumbing to illness. Lucius hadn't mourned her exactly, but he had tried his best to preserve her life—he'd owed her that. They had had a strong partnership.

Leaving through the entrance, the car was waiting for him. Draco had accompanied him to these negotiations for a while, but Lucius could tell his interest had fleeted of late. Perhaps it was time to educate Scorpius on the political intricacies related to running an empire. This part of the business would never be something Draco excelled at, which meant Scorpius would been to be trained and encouraged. But his grandson was also dealing with unusual circumstances, an attack which had left him shaken, but he was young and resilient.

The car sped down Parisian streets until they reached the municipal building where negotiations had been held for the past new months. In Lucius' younger days, there would have been no negotiations, he would have destroyed everything in his path, but he was more circumspect now. It was better for business to work under the radar, and that required the existing structure to remain intact.

The building was cold when he got there, not that he would freeze. Miss Samra was there, waiting with her artificially golden hair tied back into a tight bun. Clear, large eyes considered him suspiciously and he smiled. Her mouth always grew a little tighter when he did. She thought him arrogant. He was arrogant. These negotiations were happening with his allowance. Every single one of them would disappear at his request. He could even do it himself if he so wished. There was a certain beauty in violence, but more often than not it included a sacrifice of one's wardrobe in exchange for a certain satisfaction. Violence in and off itself achieved very little. It was useful in keeping the status quo however.

Miss Samra stood, wearing a light shirt under a dove gray blouse. Her neck looked impossibly thin. By all appearance a fragile thing, but she was tougher than her appearance let on. Lucius could still rip her apart with such easy if he chose. He wondered if she knew this.

"Miss Samra," Lucius said indulgently. "I trust you are rested."

"Of course," she said as she always did, sitting down in her chair. He did enjoy how she refused to show weakness. In truth there was little strength behind her other than her own mettle. She had a boyfriend who was cheating on her, although she was largely unaware of this. Lucius did suspect that on some level she knew—women always knew, and she was deluding herself. It was a weakness that Lucius thought less of her for, being a man who made it his business to know what others did behind his back.

Lucius was perhaps not a great lover of women, knowing they could be as mercenary as the most expensive soldiers on the market. But Miss Samra wasn't mercenary; she believed fully in what she was doing, that this negotiation was for the good of France, and that she was her nation's protector. Nowhere in her mind did she expect this was merely an act of manipulation.

It wasn't to say that there were no risks. A complete breakdown of relationships could have negative consequences, even to the point where they could be driven out of Paris in order to keep the revenues flowing. War only upset business and a balance was mutually beneficial. The muggles would lose heavily financially if they lost the Malfoy industrial activities, but Lucius knew muggles were prone to such irrationality if pushed too far.

Miss Samra, however, prided herself on her rationality. She also feared she was out of her depth and that made her angry, scared she was being trapped and manipulated into a concession she didn't fully understand the implications of. She was out of her depth and Lucius was teasing her, pushing her a little bit more each day. At least she was more colorful than the staid and passionless civil servant that was previously tasked with concluding these negotiations.

"Now, Miss Samra, you cannot make us responsible for what factions of your society does."

"Even when those factions are supporting your operations?"

"They merely offer a service we make use of."

"You are knowingly supporting unlawful activity."

"We are doing no such thing," he drawled.

Color creeping up Miss Samra's cheeks. Not for the first time, he wondered why the muggles had made his young woman their chief negotiator. Perhaps they believed he'd be swayed by her beauty. He was appreciative; it did make for more interesting session to deal with an opponent who blushed.

Lucius checked his watch. This were as per usual getting nowhere. "Now, I'm afraid I just pull myself away from your company, Miss Samra." He rose, but paused before turning away. "Now, next session won't be for a while," he said.

"But we have a session planned next week," Miss Samra said, looking stumped.

"Well, that will have to wait. If you insist on meeting next week, you will have to come to me. I am sure you can accommodate me," he stated with absolute assuredly.

He smiled. It always disturbed Miss Samra if there was the slightest hint of a sexual undertone. Again something that made these negotiations more interesting. Miss Samra, however, was much too wary of him to ever allow her mind to travel in that direction. She would never let an attraction flourish, and Lucius was grateful. Miss Samra trying to seduce him would be tiresome. Perhaps that was why he had a modicum of respect for her.

"Until next time," he said and turned, striding out of the room designed in antique baroque fashion. The muggles had purposefully chosen this room, thinking it would put him in a position of awe. It was a pitiful understanding of luxury. Décor didn't make luxury, having anything you wanted did and that was a position Lucius excelled at. Perhaps it was an understanding he was ready for Miss Samra to comprehend.

The car silently drove back to Malfoy headquarters and Lucius' mind grew darker. The issue of his son and grandson encroached. Damaging winds have been blowing of late and both had been injured in their wake—fortunately not to the point where the house fell down, but these winds had still caused damage. Lucius hated not having anyone to blame for misfortunes.

"Call Scorpius down," he told the butler when he walked through the entrance. The man nodded and went to do Lucius' bidding.

He had sat down at his desk by the time Scorpius appeared, walking casually into Lucius' study and sitting down heavily in a spare chair. The young man's carefree nature hid things now. It had never used to.

"We need to discuss your marriage to Claudine," Lucius said and watched as Scorpius grimaced. This was another development of these bad winds—Scorpius was no longer complicit with this marriage. The young man's mouth tightened. "Rebellion is tedious," Lucius said coolly.

"I'm not sure I want to embrace marriage."

"An heir is required, and can only be gotten through marriage." Bastards were not something Lucius was ready to accept. He still believed in the old ways; the ways of this society.

Scorpius winced again. "I'm not ready."

"It matters little if you're ready. It must be done."

Getting up, Scorpius paced to the window.

"You cannot marry a ghost," Lucius said and got no response, Scorpius' shoulders held tightly.

"I cannot marry Claudine either. I do not love her and I never will. She deserves more than a loveless marriage."

"Girls like Claudine were not raised to believe in love. This marriage is an absolute triumph for her. Marriage has always been a transaction. You know that."

This new development in Scorpius' disposition was unfortunate.

"What point is there in dwelling in what can never be," Lucius continued. "There is something to be said for getting on with life. A son will give you the meaning you seek. Family is everything."

"Is it? Maybe this family only destroys."

"No, Scorpius, family is everything; it always has been. And it is your time to defend yours. Marry this girl, beget an heir, then you can do as you wish. A wife is never the great encumberment you imagine."

"I will not marry her," Scorpius said like a petulant child.

Lucius sighed with annoyance, remembering a time when he'd been foolish and headstrong in his youth, where idealism seemed to mean something. "You will come around, Scorpius. There are no alternatives. You're ghost is gone and she is not coming back. You may choose to sulk for a while, but at some point you will have to pull yourself together and get on with it. We all did at some point."

"Is that why Draco let Cassandra go?"

"Sometimes things are more complicated than you understand."

"What's so complicated about it?"

"If you cannot give what the other person needs." It was a sad truth, but it was the position Draco was in. Lucius recognized the temptation in love, but also knew he would never be able to return it. For Draco, he suspected things were more complicated, which made the decision to distance her all the more imperative.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Hopson knocked discreetly on Lucius' study door. He knew it was Hopson by the lightness of the knock.

"What is it, Hopson?" Lucius asked, looking up from the documents he was reviewing.

The door cracked open and Hopson half appeared. "There is a visitor, a Miss Samra."

Leaning back, Lucius considered what he heard. Miss Samra here. For what possible reason? This was not a scheduled meeting time and Miss Samra never met outside it. Could she have information she wanted to share? He doubted it. The girl was resolutely against him, her distrust evident in her eyes, too wary to be charmed. It was tiresome really.

This was a development, and Lucius didn't always like unforeseen developments. But he conceded there could be opportunity in everything if approached right. "See her up."

"She is wet, sir."

"Wet?"

"Dripping."

Turning to the dark window, Lucius saw the distortion of water on the pane. She had walked here in the rain. He frowned.

"I will come down. Perhaps a towel, Hopson," Lucius said and rose, buttoning the waist coast and checking the clock on the wall. It was eleven in the evening, too late for either a business or social call. This did indicate that something about this was off.

His steps echoed off the marble as he walked down the hall, taking the large, sweeping staircase down to the main entrance. She stood there, her back to him, in slim dress made out of dark blue satin, with bare shoulders. Perhaps it was a lighter blue, but the water made it dark. It fit her perfectly, showing every feminine curve. He should see her shivering.

"Miss Samra," he said and she turned around. Her hair was wet and her mascara had run slightly.

She smiled, a sight he rarely saw. "I am sorry for the intrusion. I was out and it started raining." She didn't say anything more, her eyes following him as he took the last few steps down. Hopson appeared with a towel. Lucius took it and handed it to Miss Samra, whose fingers were cold to the touch.

"You must warm. Is the fire prepared in the parlor?" he asked Hopson.

"I believe so."

"Something warm then, tea perhaps."

Miss Samra had the towel clutched to her chest.

"Come," Lucius said, "we must warm you."

He urged her to move ahead of him and she did, half turning every few steps to ensure he was following.

In terms of negotiation tactics, this was unusual—to place oneself in such a position. Was it design to engage protective qualities in him? It would be a rare and strange tactic, and probably not planned by someone who knew him well.

"And where have you been tonight?" he asked, watching as she walked, seeing the water drip on the floor, leaving wet footprints. Black pumps showed off her calf muscles as she lifted the hem of her dress to walk up the stairs. She wasn't doing a terribly good job with the towel.

"The opera," she said, smiling again. She had a lovely smile, he had to concede, although he was still bemused about this whole scenario. "It was lovely—Puccini."

"Ah, Puccini is always nice," he said, too distracted trying to understand this turn of events to place any real thought to if there was meaning in this opera.

"Were you alone?"

"No, I was with … I lost him somewhere." She didn't elaborate further.

It was a date then, someone she didn't know well if she couldn't quite recall his name. He knew Miss Samra was single, but a young, attractive woman was bound to have gentlemen callers—one who apparently was willing to take her to the opera. Maybe an older gentleman caller then.

She stopped and he opened the door to the rarely used parlor. It was sumptuously decorated in red and dark wood, perhaps out of fashion with the current day trends, a throwback to a different era, one Lucius preferred to the stark, minimalist lines of current fashion.

"It would be best that you sit by the fire, Miss Samra."

She followed his direction and sat in the plushy arm chair, leaning over her legs, unwittingly showing him more of her cleavage, white small breasts. She was cold. Clasping her hands she tried to increase her circulation. A contented smile spread across her lips, which were now bare from whatever lipstick she'd worn this evening.

Hopson arrived with the tea service, placing it on a small table between the chairs. Lucius sat forward and poured a cup, handing it over to Miss Samra, whose hand made the cup rattle on its little plate.

"I am curious why you sought refuge here, Miss Samra," he said coolly.

She looked up, her eyes bright. "I just thought of you and knew you'd help me."

An absurd statement. Perhaps the girl had had a shock and lost her senses. "When you are done, I can have the car take you home."

"No," she said, half standing. The vehemence of her reaction surprised him. "No, I prefer to stay."

Absently, she placed the cup of tea untouched on the small table beside her, watching him intently.

"You should have your tea," he said and watched her as she picked it up again, putting her slim finger in the cup's ear and bringing it to her lips. She watched him the whole time and a spear of concern crawled up his spine.

"You can't stay here, Miss Samra."

"No, I must. I can't go home," she pleaded.

"And why not?"

"Because I must be with you."

Calmly, Lucius pressed his lips together. "Hopson," he called. It took a few moments for the manservant to appear.

"We must prepare a room for Miss Samra, I think. Somewhere with chains." He rose and Miss Samra followed suit. "No, you will stay here," he said firmly. She seemed to listen, tentatively taking her seat again, watching him like a hunting dog ready to take direction. "Hopson will take you to your room."

He heard a peep from her when he walked to the door. Awkwardly turning, he considered her, looking earnest and longingly at him. "I will see you later," he said and she looked assured.

"Chain her," he said quietly to Hopson and retreated back to his study.

The chair groaned when he sat back again. He cursed. Clearly his negotiating nemesis had been influenced by some form of magic—a spell or potion of some sort. Her obsession would only worsen and all concerned would be better off if she were kept hidden.

This was obviously not something Miss Samra had done to herself. It was a massive imposition placed on her and she was effectively the pawn in someone's game, disabling her in her duties. It was also something that the muggles couldn't do, which meant they had help from the magical community, someone who sought to undermine these negotiations.

Now he was burdened with managing her. She couldn't be released; she would only return, seeking his company with a manic determination. Her safety could best be managed here. Although he grew tired of Miss Samra's prickles and wariness, she didn't deserve this.

If he knew exactly what had been used on her, he might be able to find some way to reverse it, but not knowing made it too risky. For all intents and purposes, unless someone confessed, there were no antidotes and her body had to process the magic until it worked its way out of her system, which could take up to a month.

In the meantime, he would have Draco look for a culprit. This was obviously a form of subversion, of attacking the family and the ongoing negotiation process with the muggles. It had to be rooted out and destroyed.

Hopson appeared in the doorway.

"Is she safely stowed away?"

"She is chained in one of the guest bedrooms. She is highly confused and is asking to see you."

"Make sure she is fed. She is unlikely to eat willingly." The potion would rob her of sense and reason, wanting only to be near him. She could be quite dangerous in that quest, seeking to employ any tactic to achieve her aim. "Inform all in the house of her presence. You are the only person to deal with her."

"What shall you tell the muggle administration?"

"Perhaps we could construe that Miss Samra has gone on vacation. I will inform Draco; he will make the arrangements for it to appear so."

Hobson left and Lucius leaned back, wondering if perhaps he was better off killing the girl. A month of dealing with a manic, love struck muggle was too trying to bear, but then she was an innocent in this occurrence, even if found her trying as the chief muggle negotiator. She was more intelligent than the last one, and certainly prettier to behold. He was not one to rush to find a new one.

Hopson would have to keep her locked away until this had all passed and she could safely be released.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

There were manacles on her wrists. Melisande didn't understand—why were there manacles on her wrists. She was in a bedroom, a nicely decorated bedroom with an old four poster bed and white wall paper with bamboo printed on it. These chains kept her here, away from him. He needed her. These chains had to come off. Didn't they see that they were keeping her from him when he needed her? Twisting the chains around, she tried to put enough pressure on them to break them. It hurt, but it needed doing.

"Mademoiselle," a man said. Wrong man. She didn't want him; she wanted Lucius. "Where's Lucius?" she pleaded. "He needs me."

"Lucius is in his study," the man said. That made her feel better. He was nearby. In his study. The man was carrying a jug of water. "Are you thirsty?"

"I need to see Lucius. Let me go. You have no right to chain me."

"What have you done?" said the man, coming closer. "Your wrists are bleeding."

"I must see Mr. Malfoy; it is imperative. Release this chains. I command you." Her voice shook as she spoke and a twinge in the back of her mind sent a warning, but it faded. This person was keeping her from Lucius. He had to be evil. No doubt Lucius was searching for her and didn't know where to find her. "Lucius!" she screamed, over and over again, hoping he would hear her and come rushing in to save her.

"Hush, Mademoiselle. You cannot keep screaming. Do not make a nuisance of yourself," he said beseechingly.

"He will hear me," she said, staring at the man, ensuring he knew what trouble he would be in when Lucius found her. "He will destroy you."

"It's not me I'm worried about," the man said, trying to grab her wrists. Melisande whipped them out of his reach.

"Lucius!" she screamed.

"Are you hungry?"

"No. Unlock these chains. You have no right to keep me here."

"I have brought you a change in clothes."

She looked over to the chair he had indicated, seeing a soft shirt and pants there. Was the man insane? She looked beautiful in this. Lucius wanted her to look her best. He appreciated her like this—he loved her like this.

Tugging on the chains hard, they made a grinding noise around the columns of the bed.

"Mademoiselle, please stop doing that. You will be more comfortable in those."

"No."

"You must sleep."

"Are you insane? I'm not lying down to sleep here." She certainly wasn't going to sleep around this ogre. Who knew what he had planned while she was sleeping? He might drug her. The food was drugged so she would pass out and he would carry out his evil deeds. She had to refuse everything he gave her.

Another twinge of something shot through her mind, but it melted away before she could grasp its meaning. Maybe she didn't want to know. The only thing of importance right now was to thwart his plans and to reach Lucius.

"I must see to your wrists," he said.

"Do not come near me," she said, scuttling over the bed to the other side. The man was old and he moved slowly. He would never catch her. She had to move quickly, find some way of breaking these chains. Or did the man have a key somewhere on his body. She would knock him unconscious and find it. But how?

Hopson appeared at the study door and Lucius silently exhaled, knowing this would be about the girl. Was there any way this would not be a huge imposition?

"What is it, Hopson?" he said, seeing the man's uncomfortable expression. It wasn't so much an expression, because his expressions didn't change, frankly, it was more an air that changed in the most minuscule way, but Lucius had learned to read his man servant well, and visa versa.

"She is tearing herself apart fighting the chains," Hopson said. "It seems I am keeping her from you. She will not eat or drink."

The chair groaned for him when he leaned back and entwined his fingers. Again, was there any way this would not be a complete nuisance? Her screaming echoed through the entire house, screaming his name. He had never experienced that before. Yes, people screamed, but never his name, and with such despair, like a lost child.

There she went again.

"She believes if you knew where she was, you would come to her," Hopson said. Lucius raised an eyebrow at the ridiculous notion, but then she was completely out of her mind. "She will eventually exhaust herself."

"If someone doesn't kill her first," Lucius said tartly. He wasn't the only one who would be at their wits end with her screaming all night. They could drug her, but that was risky, with a strong possibility that it would interact with whatever potion it was she'd been given. "Perhaps we should put her down in the dungeon." They were built to contain screaming.

"I suspect she would injure herself further in her attempts to escape."

Lucius pursed his lips in annoyance. If someone did this with the aim of annoying him to no end, they were certainly succeeding.

Miss Samra wasn't a weak woman, meekly doing as she was told. It was the reason she had been assigned as a negotiator in the first place, and the reason she was now a nightmare. She wasn't going to take Hopson's or anyone else's direction—except him. She would follow his direction, the potion making her eager to please him if no one else. "Fine, bring her here," Lucius said. "Chain her in the corner. If I can't make her silence we will have to place her in the dungeons and her body will have to suffer."

"As you wish," Hopson said, retreating out of sight.

Lucius could hear Miss Samra pepper the man servant with questions all the way down. Her mind only had one goal—single-minded determination. On some level fascinating. The fierce warnings around love potions were something he'd never doubted. Victims could be extremely destructive in their aim to be closer, to be accepted, even to clear the path to the object of their obsession with the most brutal of means.

Hopson appeared, then the girl, still wearing the same formal dress. Her eyes lit up when she saw him and she yanked herself out of Hopson's grasp and ran to him. She couldn't embrace him as the manacles kept her wrists together, but she did the best she could, clasping onto his waist coat.

With large, dewy eyes, she looked up at him. Her face was still a mess, her make-up having disintegrated or run. She was still beautiful though, a perfect picture of health. No even bad make-up could hide her true beauty. But she was a muggle.

"I've been looking for you," she said breathily. "That man kept me away. You couldn't hear me." She twisted slightly, still tightly snuggles into his body, so she could watch Hopson with suspicious eyes.

"I could hear you, Miss Samra, and Hopson here does my bidding."

She looked up at him again, confusion shining through her eyes. Of course she didn't believe him; the potion wouldn't let her. No doubt her mind was twisting his words into something coerced. In her mind, it was them against the world and everyone else was evil, or completely unimportant, including his family. Both Scorpius and Draco were capable enough to easily fend off someone like her, but her complete irrationality was still a threat. She had to be managed.

Lucius looked down on her, again wondering if it was best to kill her. Her large eyes looked back and she smiled tenderly. Like a lost puppy, only happy to be with him.

"You will sit over there," Lucius said, pointing to a chair in the far corner of the office. "If you are good and do what I say, I will leave you unchained. If you are bad, the chains will be firmly in place and you will not be able to move. Do you understand?"

She nodded eagerly and Lucius groaned in vexation.

"Go sit."

Unwillingly she did as he bid, taking a seat in the chair. She didn't relax though, only keeping the barest of seats, ready to spring up whenever he let her. At least she followed direction—it really was her saving grace.

Lucius returned to the paper on his desk and started reading. She would tell him anything he wanted to know about the muggles' negotiation tactics: their aims, fall back positions and touch points. It was too easy to find out, but equally he didn't need to know. He knew full well he would get exactly what he wanted. Not knowing their camp would make this tedious process a little more interesting.

She shifted in her seat, making it scrape slightly on the parquet floor.

"Quiet," he said and the noise stopped. Again he sighed. It was going to be a long month. When he looked up, her eyes were still eagerly watching him, watching everything he did, even reading. She would perhaps learn everything there was to know about him through her constant observation. Maybe there was method in someone's madness sending her in like this, under the influence of a love potion. He wasn't quite sure to what degree she would remember everything, but she was silently cataloging everything about him in her addled mind.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

The girl clearly didn't trust Hopson, cringing away whenever he came near. It made Lucius snort with amusement because she had it so very wrong in where she placed her caution and fear. He wondered what he could make her do—probably just about anything. There was little joy in baiting a love struck fool, but he was curious from a observational standpoint if there were any limits a strongly principled person like Miss Samra would stop at. Then again, a love potion was by its very nature overpowering.

Her wrists were still bleeding, but she wasn't going to let Hopson near her, probably no one else either. She wasn't by nature a trusting person. Did those traits still hold some sway over her actions?

"Hopson, bring a first aid kit," Lucius said as Hopson was retreating from the room.

"As you say," the man said and disappeared, returning before long with a dark green box, placing it on the edge of the desk. "Would you like me to tend her wounds?" Lucius could tell Hopson wasn't relishing the task. The girl would fight him, and although that might be amusing, Lucius actually had some work to do that evening.

"No, it is fine. I will do it. Come." Hopson retreated and Lucius turned his attention to the girl who was still sitting eagerly at the edge of her chair. She rose immediately, moving swiftly toward him. "Kneel," he said and she complied, falling down on her knees beside his chair. She looked at him with large eyes, observing everything. She licked her lips as if ready to devour.

Lucius observed her for a moment. It was strange to be the object of someone's single-minded determination. What was it she wanted? She was in his presence, but it wasn't enough. She was still waiting. At least she took direction, instead of turned into some raving, lust-filled zombie, intent on only one thing. Miss Samra had an all-encompassing obsession, but what did she want from him in her addled mind?

"Give me your wrists."

She held them out. There were people who were like this, eager to please, who craved being ordered around, told what to do and expected to comply. They wanted to be treated like this, dominated. Miss Samra was not one of them. She was anally retentive in her independence, her need to be seen as strong and capable. Her behavior now would mortify her.

He placed her wrists on his thigh covered by black, fine wool. Any blood would not be seen. He could not be the person he was if he was squeamish about a little blood.

Hopson was right, she had torn her wrists apart. It did show how far she'd go to get what she wanted. "Does it hurt?" he asked. She shook her head.

"It probably will now," he said as he poured the astringent on a cotton square and wiped it across the wound. Her sharp intake of breath showed the painful sensation she experienced, but she made no more sound. She was strong, he conceded, probably stronger than he'd given her credit for. "You are not to hurt yourself," he stated, "under any circumstances. Do you understand?"

She nodded. It would difficult to explain her vacation if she came back ripped to bits.

"If you are detained, you will not injure yourself by trying to escape. I will come for you. Do you understand?"

She shifted eagerly as she sat, her legs folded neatly beneath her. In her crazed mind, she believed every word he told her. He supposed there was no harm in her believing there was some allegiance between them. If it stopped her from doing herself damage, it served a purpose.

Unrolling the bandages, he wrapped them around her wrists. They were so thin, so small. In another sense, she was so very weak. Her hands were weak, feminine, slight fingers unadorned by any jewelry. Clear gloss made her modest nails shine. She always kept her nails neat, never colored. He'd noticed during their negotiations. He finished the bandages and tucked the ends away within the folds.

"Go back to your seat," he said dismissively and she hesitated for a moment before complying. Lucius returned to his work, still aware of her intently watching him. It was disconcerting, being watched so closely. It was not something he had experienced before so persistently. True in social situations, people watched everything he did, afraid or in awe, they watched. But he'd never been a man who'd given himself to having pets, human or otherwise. He had enough power to not need constant demonstrations of it.

Lucius worked for a while, clearing away the tasks he'd set himself, even forgetting the cumbersome girl in the process. It was getting late when he checked the clock. The kitchen staff would be waiting on him. Perhaps it was time to dine. He called for Hopson to inform them he was ready.

"Are they boys dining tonight?" He still referred to Draco as a boy, even though he was far from it these day, but on some level he would always be in Lucius' mind.

"Master Draco is here, but I believe Master Scorpius is out." This was good news; Scorpius had been moping at home too much of late. Lucius was glad to see him out of the house again. Hopefully with his fiancée. The boy was straining against this marriage, another objection recently developed, all because of some obscure haunting. He would come around. Malfoy men rarely made successful marriages, but marriages were required—heirs were needed, and if a marriage produced an heir, then that was success enough.

"Come," he said to the girl who rose the moment the word was out of his mouth. She had anticipated it, he supposed, noting he was readying himself to leave. She softly padded behind him across the marble of the hallway. Her shoes were lost somewhere in the process, leaving her in bare, exposed feet. The marble would chill them, but she didn't care. He would have to secure some footwear for her, something soft and unlikely to do any damage, whatever she did. Heels were out of the question. She couldn't be trusted with anything that could be used to pierce. In fact, there were sharp and heavy objects everywhere. Vigilance would be needed to ensure no harm came to her or anyone else. The momentousness of the imposition assaulted him again and he exhaled with annoyance. He really wanted to torture whoever had done this, itched to hear them scream under his wand.

He seated her in Scorpius' seat and waited for Draco to arrive. Draco's steps were heard before he appeared and he paused at the door. "I see we have company."

"Our guest will be joining us," Lucius said. Miss Samra looked pleased and Lucius wondered what illogical thoughts were processing through her mind.

Draco sat and Miss Samra smiled in welcome. That was interesting. She could acknowledge the presence of another person, even be cordial. Was this her nature or was she trying to be a hostess on his behalf, taking the position of mistress of this house? He didn't know exactly what her aim was in this thing.

The food arrived, starting with a soup course.

"This is exquisite," she said, and again, Lucius was curious. Conversation was apparently possible with her.

"What do you prefer to dine on?" he asked to see how she responded.

"Naturally I prefer French," she said. "I know I should explore more widely, but I tend to stay with the traditional."

"Our palate runs more to the English," Lucius said and Miss Samra watched him, quelling a grimace.

"I don't have a great deal of experience, I must confess."

"Then you will be enlightened." The roast beef arrived, so rare it graduated from pink to red at the very center of the meat. The mansion kitchen was well trained and knew his and the rest of the family's preferences. They preferred different flavors from the cream, butter and richness of French cooking, more spices too.

Miss Samra ate and he could tell she enjoyed it, closing her eyes as the tender meat melted in her mouth. Was it true or was this a show she put on to please him? It was hard to tell what was real and what was a consequence of the potion working on her mind.

Draco watched her coldly, but Miss Samra didn't notice or didn't care.

"How long will our guest be staying?" Draco asked.

"It is hard to tell. It all depends on how quickly her body processes the potion. As a muggle, her constitution in weaker. Has there been any developments with the investigation?"

Draco watched the girl for a moment. "The medium was a wine bottle. I found it in her kitchen. By all accounts, she had drunk from it alone. There was no evidence of anyone else being there at the time."

Lucius turned to Miss Samra. "Where did the bottle of wine come from?"

She looked up, confusion showing in her eyes. "What bottle?" She looked around the table.

"The bottle you had yesterday at home. Where did you get it?"

"My friend Michele left it for me at my door. He'd come by but I wasn't there."

"And who is this person Michele?"

"I've known him for years. He's my friend. We went to University together."

"What's his surname?" Draco cut in.

"Moran."

"And what does Mr. Moran do?"

"He's a graphic artist," she said, looking confused. "Why are we talking about Michele?"

"Just curious," Lucius said dismissively.

"And he lives in Paris?"

"Yes, in Gringy."

"I will check him out," Draco said.

Lucius nodded. This was not a person Lucius was aware of being affiliated with the muggle administration. As a graphic artist, he could simply be a decoy, a means for making her accept the wine. It did show that whoever had done this, knew her friendships, which suggests someone who knew her, or someone who had taken the time to study her. Either way, this was premeditated.

As Lucius watched, Miss Samra embraced the pleasure of the dessert, some concoction including cinnamon and apples.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Melisande followed Lucius into the study after dinner, sitting down in the chair that had been indicated as hers. Lucius sat down behind his desk, his glorious hair, shining in the darkened room. A fire was roaring. Spotlights over the desk turned on, gently brightening the space. Her Lucius was returning to work.

"You work too much," she said.

"You think so?" he said, leaning back in the leather chair, which creaked with the shifting weight. "I have an empire to run." In the back of her mind, she knew his operations extended much further than he ever admitted to them.

"It's not good for you to work so much."

"It is required, Miss Samra."

"Please call me Melisande."

Lucius smiled. "I suppose from your perspective that seems appropriate."

She hated having to sit on this chair, so far away from him. Did he do anything other than work? It wasn't right. As she watched, he returned to work, his hand grabbing a fountain pen and his thumb pushing off the cap. His hands were beautiful.

The light rapping of rain started on the window, making her feel like she was cocooned inside this bubble of warmth and splendor that was Lucius' study. There was only one truly splendorous thing in the room and it was the man sitting at the desk, bright and powerful. Melisande drew in a breath and let it go again. She was too far away from him. He was the fire, the source of light and warmth, and she was over here in the corner.

If there were some way she could lighten the burden for him, she would. He worked so hard. Everyone depended on him and he had no one—misunderstood. The lone guardsman who made sure everyone was safe. He really was trying to keep the peace between his people and hers—working relentlessly to ensure everyone coexisted smoothly, but the burden to himself was enormous. An accusation that it wasn't true voiced in the back of her mind, but it was drowned out by other voices.

"You should come with me to the opera," she said.

"Opera?"

"Or away. Let's go away, just the two of us. Anywhere. Maybe somewhere exotic." She rose out of her chair and took a few steps closer to him. Her wrists were still bandaged from where he had tended to her. The thought made her heart melt. "Wouldn't that be wonderful, just you and me in a strange city. It sounds wonderful."

"Is that your idea of wonderful, Melisande?" Her name dripped of his tongue like honey, sending a frisson of pleasure down her spine. Walking around the edge of the desk, she kneeled and sat down on her lower legs, too afraid to approach completely for fear he'd tell her to return to her seat or worse, to leave. That could not happen. She needed to be in his presence. Her heart would break if she was turned away from his glorious warmth. He'd turned in chair toward her and was watching her. "And what would we do in this foreign place?"

"Explore," she said earnestly, shifting a little closer. And other things, intimate things. His eyes were dark and reflected the flickering lights of the fire, seemingly creating motion where there were none. She wanted to be closer, but was wary of the point where she would be too close and he would send her away.

"I hadn't known you were such an adventuress, Miss Samra."

"Melisande."

"Melisande," he said. Again a frisson of pleasure slunk down her spine. His voice had a unique timbre that shook her very being. She inched a little closer. He watched her, and there was nothing better in the whole world than his attention. "I think it's time to retire, Melisande." Hope flared in her. "Hopson will return you to the bedroom you were in."

"No," she said, her heart crashing. "I can't bear a cold night all alone. I can't bear it."

Lucius smiled and she hoped he would change his mind. Why must he put her through these trials, her love for him was complete. "I don't want to leave you."

"Do you believe yourself my protector?" he said with a raised eyebrow.

"No one would dare challenge you. You are too magnificent."

He laughed now, making his face softer. "If only others saw me the way you do," he said, still smiling. "Your perspective, Melisande, is quite unique."

She rose up on her knees, daring to place a hand on her knee.

"Time for you to retire, you need you rest, my dear." The endearment made her hope soar.

"Please let me stay with you. I would worry endlessly."

He considered her for a moment. "I am not used to having anything other than lone silence in my room, and that is how I prefer it."

She was dying to know what his inner sanctum was like. "At least let me see where you are. I will feel better if I knew where you are."

He considered her for a moment, his eyes traveling down to her wrists. "Fine, but then you return to your room and you stay there until morning."

Being away from him was a horrendous thought, but so was displeasing him. She would suffer, for it was what he wanted. She nodded, mirroring him as he stood. He walked past her and Melisande stood by, receiving him glorious scent in his wake. Her eyes closed as she drew it in, leather and whiskey, and pure male—Lucius. Women must fall at his feet, jealous rage coursed through her.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, standing by the door.

Should she lie? She didn't want to lie to him. Honesty was the only worthy pursuit here. "How others must adore you as well."

A slight smile tugged on the corner of his mouth. "Would that bother you?"

"Yes."

"You are jealous?" His eyes bored into hers and she was mesmerized by their beauty.

"Yes."

"I suspect no one adores me quite adores me the way you do," he said and Melisande beamed with the affirmation. She was the one who loved him the most and he knew it. A bright smile broke across her face.

Turning, he headed to the marble staircase, covered in the central walkway with a rich, red carpet. His steps were silent, a wisp of his hair floating with the movement and air. She followed, trying to find his wake again, where his scent seeped into her very being. He kept walking until he reached a set of doors—dark, mahogany. "You may never enter here without my expressed permission."

Hurt crept through her very soul. He was limiting her, but she could never defy him, even if she wanted to. "Come in," he said and opened the door. The room was large. Green carpet covered the entire space. A fireplace was lit and the walls were dark wood. This was a masculine space. There was not softness, no femininity in here. On one level she was glad—she wanted to be the only woman in his life. The bed was black, four posts. That was where he slept, where he was the most open and intimate. Dark, erotic thoughts flowed through her mind. "Not for you," he said, close to her ear.

Walking into the space, he sat down in a chair, high-backed and silver brocaded. Everything in this room was rich and sumptuous, but closed off and secretive, just like the man. It only showed the surface of him and she wanted the go inside, as deep as she could get.

"Do you wish for something to drink?"

She nodded as a drink would serve to extend her stay with him. He rose and walked over to the bar in the corner, pouring her a drink, a quart in a crystal tumbler. His fingers touched hers and pure heat flared up her hand. Touching him was electric, every part of her tightened. She wished the touch would continue, but he pulled his hand away and she looked down on the drink. It was special because it was his drink, served in a glass he gave her. She wished she could keep it and treasure it, but took a sip of the brown, burning liquid. "Please let me stay."

"No," he said and returned to the chair. He was still watching her.

"What are you thinking?"

"I want to sleep in your bed." If the statement shocked him, he didn't show it. He took another sip of his drink.

"Tell me about the man you went to the opera with," he said.

Melisande had to harness her thoughts. For a moment she couldn't remember. "Uhm, he … his name is Philipe. He is an accountant for the Department of Culture."

"Do you like him?" Lucius extended his legs and crossed them onto a small footrest. Melisande's eyes followed the movement. He moved so smoothly, so beautifully. Did she like him? Philipe. She tried to think, finding it hard to think about him. It was like there was a haze over him in her mind's eye.

"I can't quite recall," she said. "I haven't known him all that long, I think."

"Is he attractive?"

Was this a test of her loyalty? No one was at attractive as Lucius was, surely he knew that? "In an objective sense, then yes."

"In an objective sense," Lucius repeated. "What do you like about him?"

It was a difficult question. She could answer what she didn't like about him—he wasn't Lucius. "He is kind. He is from a good family." It was all she could think of. Truly, nothing came to mind.

"Is that important to you?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. Probably not. She had only been really interested in her because he's shown an interest. She wasn't ugly, but she didn't have the most welcoming countenance. People saw her as cold and aloof. In some ways it was true; she didn't readily invite intimacy will colleagues and acquaintances. She didn't have many friends—had never needed them.

Lucius inhaled and exhaled again. "Time for you to retire, Miss Samra."

"No," she pleaded, throwing another look at Lucius' bed. That was where she wanted to be, not exiled into the cold darkness. "Please let me stay."

He rose and walked over to her, placing his large, warm palm on her upper arm. "Be a good girl, and return to your room," he said calmly as if talking to a child. With crushing disappointment she complied, turning to watch as he closed the door to his inner sanctum. She stood on the other side, in the darkness, hoping she would hear him, but the doors and the walls were too thick.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Melisande's delicate fingers picked up the puzzle piece, placing it on the small table next to her chair. He'd suggested it as a way of distracting her and she had allowed herself to be distracted. The light of the fire shone of her bare legs. Hopson had procured clothes for her, a skirt and a blouse. They had been in his study since dinner, her in her assigned seat, charged with completing the puzzle.

She looked over at him, a piece forgotten in her hand. She smiled. "Have you finished working?"

"No," he said. Her gaze turned longing and Lucius returned his attention to the documents in front of him. Routine kept this manageable, but he'd had enough sitting at his desk for one day. "Actually, yes. I might go for a walk."

"May I join you?"

"You may," he said as he rose. She followed as he walked to the entrance, where Hopson appeared before long. Lucius donned his long, black robes, and Hopson brought a cloak for Miss Samra. They wouldn't exactly blend in on the streets, but Lucius couldn't bring himself to match the muggle fashions. It lacked a certain elegance.

The street was dark and slick with rain. Melisande's steps clicked on the cobblestones, her hand lying in the crook of his elbow. It had been a long time since he'd walked with a woman like this. Women were a complicated topic. The ones who sought to be near him did so when their ambition outweighed their wariness. Often they were even times when they were directed by their families, hoping to secure favor, elevation and status in wizarding society.

Melisande wanted nothing but to be near him. There were no hidden agendas, pointed words dropping here and there trying to set up whatever scenario they were trying to enact. But she was a muggle and he normally saw the exclusion of muggle women as a source of pride. Mixing of the races wasn't something they approved, although he knew many had muggle mistresses. Melisande would never agree to be a mistress however. He knew that much about her.

"I like the rain," she said. "Officially I'm called a pluviophile. Everything feels so cozy when it's raining. Problems are kept at a distance and it's just the here and now."

This was not something his research of her had uncovered. She smiled brightly up at him, then put her cheek to his shoulder, her body soft against his.

"I like the privacy it affords me," he said in return. It was true. Muggles tended to stay away in the rain, which meant he could clearly see an attacker coming. Would he defend her if one did, beyond the sheer benefit of keeping the opposition's chief negotiator alive? This potion made her so vulnerable. She would probably even try to defend him, which would most likely be a nuisance more than helpful.

They walked down to the Seine, which flowed black as ink. He stopped at the edge, a chain barrier at the edge. Spring was slowly creeping up, but not yet noticeable when night fell.

Melisande turned to him and picked up his gloved hand, kissing his knuckle. Her attention was inescapable, prying itself into his sensory being. Blinking slowly, she looked up at him like a lover, her eyes traveling to his lips. She wanted a kiss. Her skin was pale and perfect, ivory with the slightest pink tint on her cheeks.

"You know this is not really what you want," he said. "When things are back to normal, you will not appreciate anything you wish for right now."

"Yes, I will," she said adamantly, stepping a little closer, like a predator honing in on its prey. Lucius exhaled and snorted slightly. Out of the two of them, the true predator wasn't the one doing the pushing. "I want you with everything in me. That will never change." Her hands placed gently at his sides. Rising up on her toes, she leaned in closer, slow enough that he could evade if he wanted to. A gentleman would, but Lucius had never been one to concern himself over the interest of others to his own detriment. Everything he did served the family, with ruthless disregard to others. This didn't serve the family, but it served him—the sweet, gentle offer. She would yield so softly, quell the desire she was constantly coaxing.

"I'm afraid you've had the misfortune to be directed at someone who is ultimately self-serving," he said, looking down at her clear, eager eyes. "I serve as a poor guardian for your authentic inclinations."

"I only want you," she said, her hand clasping his jacket.

"A false desire."

"Never."

Putting his hand along her jaw, he claimed the kiss she sought so eagerly. Her lips were soft and sweet, the front of her body pressing to his. An honorable man wouldn't do this, but this didn't fit into his code. It neither harmed nor served—but it was tempting.

Tentatively her tongue sought entrance into his mouth and he relinquished. Everything was so sweet with her, simple exploration because he was the object of every one of her desires.

Gently, he forced the kiss to break and resumed walking. Her head returned to his shoulder. What responsibility did a predator have if the prey was inviting him in? Predators by their nature took advantage irrespective of how it was presented. Maybe not an advantage he'd targeted specifically, but now that it was offered, he found himself succumbing to it.

"Let's return home," he said. They hadn't walked far, but far enough to erase his intentions of keeping her at arm's length. Desire burned through his body now, a want he'd suppressed for a long time. Now it roared back to life, supplemented by months of parrying with her in fruitless negotiations.

He could feel the excitement in her; she seemed to sense the drop in the walls that kept her out. They didn't speak further, instead quietly returned to the house, divesting the robes and moving up the stair case to his private quarters.

When the door to his bedroom was shut, she came to him, her kisses deep and eager. Her gentle hands exploring his chest. He wanted this now and wouldn't let anything stop this. Perhaps this is what someone wanted, placing this girl under these magics, but there was no harm leveraging this. Not when she yielded so gracefully.

Her blouse fell away and Hopson had apparently not been able to secure her with a bra just yet. Rose tipped mounts greeted him, her breath underneath expanding. Then the skirt fell away and she was entirely naked in his hands, trusting him completely. She was too vulnerable for him to admonish her for her foolishness.

Urging her back, he had her on his bed, her skin glowing against the dark sheets. A flush of desire had spread across her body. She was utterly beautiful—long, lean limbs, soft, pale flesh. She reacted to each touch, her mouth parting in ecstasy. Claiming the softness on offer, he lay down in her eager arms, returning to explore her mouth.

Desire burned through his whole body now. A few quick movements and he was burying himself in her welcoming heat, pleasure unfurling in his consciousness. Pleasure was usually something fraught with hidden agendas and intentions. Here he knew her intentions exactly, even if they were not true. This would perhaps only impossible because her intentions were untrue. Politically it would be too difficult otherwise.

She arched beautifully underneath him, seeking more, seeking for him to claim her completely. Moving in and out of her, the sounds of her enjoyment only heightened, desperate hands clasping him. Bucking underneath him, she tensed through her release, her hands at his hips urging him deeper. Her responsiveness to him was complete and it was heady being in the thrall of it. As her body softened, his only tensed as he drove into her, again and again, until his own release surged through him. Pleasure exploded, draining every ounce of energy from him, giving to her.

Then there was that moment of vulnerability he'd never been quite able to root out and destroy. Her arms wrapped around him as he sank down on her body, heaving with breath. For the first time in an age, he say in the arms of another and it fed a part of him that he kept locked away, and most likely starving. Again something he hadn't been able to kill completely.

Already he wanted more, but he rolled off her and she came with him, settling at his side with her arm across him. "Please let me stay," she said in a quiet voice. "I can't bear to be on my own. I need you."

He should make her go, but he wasn't. That buried part of him still wanted the feel of her next to him. Contented sleep claimed her quickly. It was perhaps not surprising as she had been on edge for days, trying to get this overwhelming need for him tended. Her limbs grew heavy and he felt trapped. Not enough to actually shift her off him, but he acknowledged a certain level of discomfort with still being ensconced in this softness.

In her sleep, her hand still stroked across his body. Even now, she knew she was with him. He wondered what they were doing in her dreams. It was strange to be so important to someone on an intimate level. But all this was false; he could not forget that. It was also the reason he could allow this in the first place.


	33. Chapter 33

A/N Sorry it took so long to update. My muse goes on strike every once in a while.

Chapter 33

It couldn't be denied that Melisande had stopped caring for things that used to bother her, like nudity. Now, she loved languishing in Lucius' bedroom in the nude—maybe for the reason that it seemed to distract him. He delayed dressing and walking down to his study in the mornings, preferring to read the morning paper in the chair by the window, while she watched and sighed, lying between his luxurious sheets, which draped so nicely around her hips. Breakfast was also now served in his bedroom and there was a special decadence eating naked.

Nothing was as good as when he came to her. It was what she waited for, his touch on her skin, the kiss that tasted like ambrosia. Everything he did was beautiful. But when he did dress and leave, she did the same, taking time to bath and dress, scent and moisturize her skin, while he was downstairs tending to his affairs. He liked very much to undress her, and clothes had started arriving, particularly silk—stockings, lingerie, blouses. She loved wearing the clothes that appeared in the room, especially the soft and tactile silk. It was also like his touch against her skin, making her feel loved and treasured.

They rarely left the house, only for walks around the city, particularly when it was raining and they had the city to themselves.

Quietly she walked down the stairs, making her way to the study. Her heart constricted when she saw him again, pleasure flooding her brain. He needed time to do his work; she knew that. If she was patient and good, he would reward her after, usually before lunch, where she would lean on his desk and he would slip down the stockings covering her legs, before having his way with her.

For now she would have to wait. A knock on the door took Lucius' attention and Draco walked in. He looked at her for a moment then went and sat at one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. She was not allowed to sit in those chairs. They were for business and she was much too distracting, she had been told. She did wish he would allow her to help him more, but he wouldn't share his business dealings with her.

"I have traced the wine," Draco said. "Delivered from a shop her in Paris. The systems at the couriers says so, but neither the shop staff or the courier staff remember anything about the order. As if it never happened, but the systems show the delivery. Paid in cash."

"And in which manner do they not remember?"

"There are no memories left."

"It was wiped, then," Lucius said. "This suggest magical interference."

"Not crude enough to be chemical interference."

Lucius sat back and wove his fingers together. Oh, she wished he would send Draco away so it could just be the two of them. They didn't need anyone else.

"So it wasn't the muggles," Lucius said. "Unless they sought magical help."

"They never have in the past. They wouldn't trust it."

"This is interesting information. Someone wants these negotiations to fail."

"Either to create discord, or to show us failing at dealing with the muggles."

"I suspect things have not gone as they planned." Lucius ran the nail of his thumb along his bottom lip and Melisande felt her insides quiver with desire. "Do doubt they expected her to be carted away raving mad outside my house, suggesting my abuse of her and the negotiation process, or dead. Either they would have used against us. Her disappearing inside our house was probably not something they had expected, and I think they are unsure how to proceed.

"But they will proceed in some manner. Find them. They are no doubt watching the house in some way. Find trace of them and track them back. I want them dealt with. I want them punished."

Draco nodded, then left.

-0-

Lucius sighed and turned his attention to the girl, sitting in her chair. She smiled when he looked at her. "Come," he said and she rose. She wore a loose fitting white shirt which caressed her curves, and a dark wool skirt. Her legs glistened slightly in the light as she walked. Lucius felt heady desire flash through his system. "Sit," he said and she sat down in his lap.

Everything about her was lush, her lips, her round cheeks and clear eyes. Also her hair, glossy locks sweeping her shoulders. With his fingers, he pushed her hair behind her ear, watching her eyes close with the touch, her lips part.

In his gut, he knew they had expected him to kill her, dispose of her body somewhere. He couldn't lie and say the thought hadn't occurred to him when she'd first turned up, but something had stayed his hand, and now he had this sweet girl on his lap, craving every touch he would give her.

His choice had been rewarding, probably more so than he'd ever expected. There was a sweetness he didn't think he had room for in his life, but she had coaxed him, with softness and desire—things he didn't normally respond to. For some reason, he had responded to this girl—probably because he'd known her before and knew this wasn't her. If this had been real, he would never have let it go so far, but it wasn't entirely real and he'd seen no harm.

But the people out there had planned for her to turn up face down in the river somewhere, and they may not have given up on that plan. She could very well be in danger if he let her go. The light sparkled in her eyes. It was fairly dark outside, even for midday and the fire crackled behind them.

"I won't let them hurt you," he said and she smiled.

"I know you won't."

"So trusting." She shouldn't be so trusting, even of him—least of all of him, but he also couldn't bring himself to disabuse her. His thumb stroked across her lips, which were stained with a berry color. Drawing her head down, he claimed her lips. She tasted sweet, like berried and femininity. Her breasts pressed against his chest.

Lucius broke the kissed and looked down at her legs, the silk stockings feeling buttery under his hands stroking up her inner thighs. She parted her legs slightly, with hitched breath welcoming him.

This hadn't supposed to have happened. It was against his own character, but for some reason he'd allowed himself to get sucked into this… seduction. He wondered if it would have happened if they'd chosen someone else. Some random muggle, no. A witch, probably not, but her with her natural distrust and disregard—this had intrigued him, and now it had taken on a life of its own.

She held her breath as his hand moved higher. It felt forbidden. This was definitely not something he should be doing, toying with a woman, a muggle—the chief negotiator for the muggles. She was warm and wet, eager for him. She wore no underwear other than the lace topped stockings and the garter belt holding them up with small clips. He closed his eyes with the sweetness of it. Mewls of desire escaped her lips.

"Please, Lucius. I need you," she said, her voice sounding lush with strain.

Again, he kissed her, deeper this time, perhaps acknowledging there was something being filled in himself as well, something he'd buried a long time ago. Sharply, he rose and shifted her so her back lay on her desk. Her skirt had ridden up on her hips, revealing the lace high on her thighs, and she bit her own finger, waiting for him. There didn't seem to be a way to stem this desire he felt for her now that it had been released.

Unbuttoning, he sunk into her body, pulling her hips to him. Urgent warmth enveloped him, her body tightening around him. She reached for him, her hands clasping. Her mewls turned into cries. For a moment, it felt like he had no control, the desire was taking over. His stokes into her grew harder and longer, and she froze in arched tension, her body pulsing powerfully around him.

After the surge of pure, undiluted pleasure, he withdrew and she stayed on the desk, spent and languid. He felt his heart calm as he sat down again. Some of his documents were now crumpled under her, a price to pay for such compelling passion. Her passion was insatiable, but he would deny her now, until tonight, when they would withdraw in the evening. The wait, the anticipation made it sweeter. The underlying desire, desire unspent, was a pleasure in and of itself.

"I think lunch is being served, Miss Samra," he said, tidying away the unruliness about himself. "Come join me."

She rose and straightened her skirt. "Shall we go for a walk afterward?" Her hand snuck into the crook of his elbow and they leisurely walked to the dining room.

"No, I think we must stop." If there were people out to harm her, taking her out of the house would expose her. She looked disappointed. Perhaps he could take her to the house down in Geneva. She would enjoy that, but it wasn't as secure as the manor in Paris. Whatever happened, it felt important to ensure she wasn't hurt. If nothing else he would ensure that.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

There was something quite decadent about having Melisande lying naked on rumpled sheets, wearing nothing but pearls. Lucius was getting used to her attention, and she was intelligent enough to know when she was being overbearing.

"And what have you planned today?" she asked, taking a deep breath as she lay on her side.

"You know the answer."

"You work too much."

"There is no such thing," he smiled. This wasn't the first time they'd had this discussion.

"Sometimes you need to fill the well. Art, culture. It sparks the imagination, enriches the soul. You must take care of your soul. There is a new exhibition at Pompidou. Tribal arts—primitive, honest and passionate," her voice sank to barely more than a whisper.

Lucius snorted. Such things were an utter waste of time, but she enjoyed them. "Why would I want to go look at how some savages interpret the world?"

"Savages? You are so old fashioned."

"Yes, I am."

"Because you are one."

Lucius looked up, folding his newspaper in his lap. Her body looked delicious, every curve highlighted in the pale morning light. A strong urge to get up and go to her speared through him, just to forget it all and immerse himself in the softness of her, the sweetness of her. "I am probably more savage than you could ever tolerate." He worked hard on maintaining the refinement he treasured, but she wanted to break that, burrow underneath. It thrilled her, but only the hint of it. The reality was not as pretty.

Smoothly, like a cat, she got up and walked toward him, high on the balls of her feet. With a satisfied groan, she sat down in his lap, the warmth of her skin soaking through the silk he wore. "Please?"

"Why would you want me to go look at art?"

"I want to see you respond. I want to see you feel."

"You are a selfish girl."

Almost purring, she put her arms around his neck. "I know what I want."

"Which is what exactly?"

"I want to see that sparkle in your eyes."

"What sparkle would that be?"

"When you want something." Without being able to help it, his hand ran up her bare thigh. "There it is," she smiled, leaving closer for a kiss. Sweetness suffused his mind. He was growing quite accustomed to these kisses. She was always forthright in what she wanted, and she was becoming an expert at working around his barriers and deflections.

The kiss broke with a sigh. "And what of all the work I must do?"

"It will be there when you come back. You are more important than your work."

"I am my work."

"It's not your work that has me panting with need every night."

_Just a potion_, he wanted to say, but the potion did not create her personality, or her ability to seduce him. That was all her. And granted, after an initial attempt to keep her at arm's length, he had succumbed, and been richly rewarded for it. In fact, she was successful in submerging him in this play, this tease, and the heady rewards. He had to start wondering if he craved her in equal measure.

Melisande walked ahead of him, up the stairs to into the exoskeletoned building that was the Centre Pompidou. He had relented in the end, not that he was entirely sure why. Perhaps he wanted to watch her explore, be challenged, consider and wonder. Ideas had meaning to her. To her, they were a virtue in their own right, and seeking new ways of thinking was the practicing on an art.

The exhibits were all challenging in some way, seeking to disrupt order, toy with fears and resoundly communicate how small one's world was. Lucius liked order, needed order, and many of the things he saw made him itch with discomfort. But to her, they were thrilling. Maybe because she didn't know enough about chaos to fear it.

She was so very innocent, toying with passion and savagery, and the rules of civility, like a teenager rebelling against their parent's rule. The truth would harm her. That innocence would be destroyed, and that would leave something drab and gray behind. On some levels, she was a child and she would go through her life that way, excited about the world around her and the hidden layers of a person. She wanted his hidden layers, not comprehending the darkness that must exist, had to be harness and utilized.

She turned to him, smiling in her usually seductive way, but she blinked and a flash of uncertainty worked through her eyes. It disappeared as quickly as it came, but it had beyond a doubt been there. "What was I saying?" she said.

"You were speaking of the artist's dilemma."

"Yes," she said, but didn't continue. Lucius could see she didn't quite remember her conversation from a moment ago. "It is beautiful here. This entire building is an expression in and of itself." Same sentiment as a moment before, but something had changed.

Unconsciously she crossed her arms—a protective urge. Uncertainty was evading her mind. "I think we must return to the house," Lucius said. Melisande didn't argue, instead followed as he led the way to the exit, placing his hand on the small of her back as he'd grown so accustomed to doing. In his gut, he knew what this small, seemingly innocuous change signified. The potion was wearing off. The person who had become some a large part of his life was about to disappear and he didn't know how much longer she would be amenable to his company.

Rain had made the street outside slink and dark, and he led her to the car where a driver was waiting by an opened door.

"Thank you for taking me," she said, a smile breaking across her lips, but the assuredness that had been before wasn't quite there. Her eyes searched for his. Maybe on some level she was seeking assurance too, but there was no way of providing it for her. The feelings she had were going to recede and her own feeling re-emerge, feeling which more resembled distrust and maybe even disgust. The true Melisande was too wary of him to ever like him, and she had every right to be.

The intrusion into his life was over—so was the teasing, the coaxing and the sweetness. It was time to end this reprieve, to set the course of the world back on the right heading, the one that should be. This was never the right of it—an aberration.

He hated seeing the uncertainty in her eyes, betraying thoughts underneath wondering what she was doing here, with him. This was not the place she wanted to be. Melisande didn't revel in the wizarding world, seeing it as a blight and a threat, one she wished would go away. She was a muggle and wanted a simple muggle life, with a boyfriend who took her to the Opera or to dinner. Then a husband with who she had ordinary muggle children.

Her fingers untwined from his and pulled away, a touch she had insisted on for some long. Now it was starting to feel unnatural to her, her mind no doubt struggling to understand her own behavior over the last month. "I think it's getting warmer," she said brightly. "It's always nice to see the seasons change."

"Yes," he said. He felt her eyes searching him, seeking to understand the choices she'd made, to get involved with what she essentially saw as her enemy. "Should we… " She couldn't finish the sentence.

Lucius turned to look at her, her beautiful face marred with a small frown. "I think it is perhaps time for you to go home."

"Yes," she said with relief. Still, she would never be able to reconcile what she saw as the choices she'd made. At some point she might even grow suspicious that he had had a hand in this. She was intelligent enough that she would eventually question the strangeness of these developments.

"We'll just get some of your things." Lucius blinked and looked out the window. This episode was now ending. The girl who had stormed into his life, insisting on enriching it was now storming out again. He would have his life back—to work uninterrupted, to sleep undisturbed and to preoccupy himself with the things needed to run this empire without the distraction of soft touches and breathy sighs.

The car pulled in by the entrance of the mansion and Lucius stepped out and walked around to her door. He held his hand to her as she stepped out, noticing that slight look of uncertainty. Her distrust had certainly returned, now battling with the idea that she had chosen to be with him.

"I'll just get… "

Lucius drew out his wand and held it to her head as she turned around. For some reason, he didn't want her to see what he was about to do to her, didn't want to see fear in her eyes. She knew enough about the wizarding world to know that his wand was a weapon. "Obliviate," he said quietly and she slumped. Catching her, he carried her back into the car, laying her down on the seat. "Take Miss Samra home," he said to the driver. "Take Ramone to make sure she is safe. I want nothing to happen to her."

Closing the door, he turned back to the house, walking up the stairs and into the large hall. Ringing silence met his ears as he closed the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, he walked to his study and sat down. An intelligence briefing report sat on his desk. He'd been meaning to read it yesterday, but had been distracted away from it.

Her chair sat by the fireplace, empty in the silent room. He should be pleased that the messiness and disruption that she had brought into his life was leaving, but he didn't quite feel the relief of it. There was even a hint of panic, but he dismissed it.

Time to return to what he was, what he'd always be. Staring at the chair again, he knew he should have it removed, but he couldn't quite bring himself to. On some level it felt like she would walk through that door any minute and claim her perch, her clear and pretty eyes seeking him. But the reality was that she was gone now, a person who had lived for a month and now disappeared, and the person who bore her body and face was now an entirely different being, who, thanks to his spell work, would have no memory of his Melisande.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Lucius' black robes draped across his thigh as he sat in the back of the town car, watching as the spring scenery passed by outside. Muggles going about their business, buying their children ice cream, or taking their ludicrous dogs for walks. It all seemed so pointless. Small lives with infinitesimal concerns.

"It seems the Halmont family is the origin of the plan to unseat you," Draco said, breaking the silence of the car. "I have Ralph Halmont in the dungeons."

Lucius sighed. The greedy never learned and there was a danger in appearing too soft—greedy people perceived you actually were soft.

"What shall we do with him?" Draco asked.

"Keep him there for a while. Let's ensure the Halmont family's compliance." Madame Halmont had been one of Lucius's father's contemporaries and age had not mellowed the old hag. She's never risk her own son—yet she'd never expected this as an outcome. It seemed illogical to Lucius, but then maybe the community needed a reminder about who was in charge and why.

"Take the daughter as well," Lucius said. The daughter was likely, for all intents and purposes, innocent, but that would be more meaningful.

Draco remained silent, returning his attention to the road ahead. "Has she returned to work?"

"It seems she will be there today, after some medical examinations to seek the cause of her memory loss. It seems they concluded some toxin she'd ingested had a temporary effect on her."

"Are you sure this is all worth the hassle?"

Lucius closed his eyes. He had no idea how to answer the question. At the moment it felt like the only thing he could do. Was he prepared to not see her today? Was he prepared to not see her ever again? Not doing so would perhaps be the best course of action, but it wasn't one he could bring himself to enact.

"The planning for the wedding is progressing," Draco said. "Scorpius isn't strictly willing, but neither is he unwilling. I think he is accepting that it is necessary."

"He has no other choice." Well, he could rebel and run away, leaving his life and community to live with people who would never understand him, but he was too pragmatic a boy to do that. "What is her name again?"

"Claudette."

"She is a good choice for him. Her family is a strong faction, and he'd be doing himself a favor keeping them onside."

The car arrived at the municipal building. Lucius felt both dread and excitement, wishing he felt neither. These unwelcome emotions was the price he paid for her life. A part of him said this was not worth it, and another said he must pay. The driver opened the door and he stepped outside into light spring drizzle.

They progressed upstairs to the rooms where the negotiations were ongoing. A cavernous room with eighteenth century murals, preserved from the time before the muggle populous had rebelled and decimated their ruling class. That was what happened when you weren't strong enough. All that was left were old murals.

She sat there across the table, her hair in a tight bun, glasses resting on her slight nose. She perused her papers as they entered, her slim fingers turning a sheet over, a tactic to attempt to communicate she found no pleasure in this. Finally she looked up, her green eyes finding him. No recognition flickered in there. Her mouth tightened with her distaste. She hated the wizarding community—saw them as imposters that were too powerful to get rid of, like the Mongols who had spread over most of the world at one point in the past.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy," she said in greeting, her tone cold.

"Miss Samra," Lucius said, the sounds of her name breathy over his lips. There had been so many times he'd called her that, entrenched in the sweetness of her, flesh against flesh, driven by pure pleasure.

"I believe we were discussing the enforcement of law around members of your community infringing on the laws of human society."

"As we discussed before, it is not something we deem necessary as the magical world will enact punishment for any such infrigement."

"The issue is, Mr. Malfoy, that your punishments are often inhuman and we cannot abide by them."

"Perhaps the answer lies in your very statement. We are not human, as you put it."

She bristled with distaste and he didn't like seeing the reproach in her eyes. He remembered them soft and yielding, swayed by delight.

He could have that again. He could recreate her, keep her like that for as long as he wanted—which would likely be her natural life. Brewing a love potion well, one that didn't ultimately kill its victim was hard, but it wasn't impossible. She could be kept accepting, her life's purpose to be with him. The temptation was certainly there; there was no denying it. The opportunity was there too, but the knowledge would eventually grate on him, knowing she wasn't there by choice, wondering if down on some level she would know she was being manipulated and deceived.

Would he be happy pretending it wasn't all false? Would he be able to live with it year after year?

"I am not sure that is an answer we can tolerate."

Or would she make him weak—distracted when he needed to pay attention?

"It is never going to be your affair to exert punishment on a member of my community."

"But how will we know you are actually enacting punishment? We would not. You might not even try. We know from past actions exactly how much a human life is worth to you," she said harshly. Lucius actually felt the sting of it—not for the humans that the wizarding world had trampled on, because that was, in essence, just natural order, but in terms of her, he felt the sting. What did he think of taking her life and wishes away from her?

The truth was that he was more concerned for the weakness it would pose to him and his family than to her, and perhaps there was something in that disregard that stayed his hand. It was contradictory, that he respected her enough to not show the disrespect he clearly felt, as if he cared that she deserved better.

"Our punishments are harsh, Miss Samra. In fact, we have one coming up shortly, something who acted against the good of the community. If you need proof that we enact them, I can ensure your presence when the time comes," he said and watched her pale. She thought him barbaric and her eyes he was. There wasn't even curiosity about him or his community; her opposition to him was complete. Seduction of her would be unlikely without compromising her opinions and thoughts.

"Means I am sure would never be acceptable to modern day theories on punishment and enforcement, Mr. Malfoy, hence why we insist there must be some way of us dealing with wayward action against us. We are talking around in circles, Mr. Malfoy. I assure you, your methods will never be acceptable."

"Then we have yet another impasse, don't we, Miss Samra, like so many other."

Lucius knew this discussion would continue for month, requiring him to watch those soft lips grow tight and beautiful eyes consider him harshly. For a while, she had been all the softness in the world, and here she was, refusing to show the remotest indication it existed within her.

Desire for her sat like cloying taste in his mouth, wanting her, down into the most unrefined parts of him, but he couldn't. Without intent, he'd been thoroughly seduced. Even now he could feel the soft skin of her thighs. The Halmonts' intentions had been to weaken him, and they had succeeded, probably more than they realized, enough to make him itch to steal her away, keep her with him like some fairytale ogre. That would be the way she would see it.

"I think we are done for today," he said and rose, finding he couldn't sit there staring at her any longer. His resolution was wavering and she had no idea how close she was to losing her life in the muggle world, and everything she stood for. No, she had no idea how punishment worked in the wizarding world. Without a doubt it was a cruel thing.

Lucius sat in the parlor prior to dinner, nursing the finest firewhiskey money could buy. The crystal tumbler sparkled in the fire light. The silence of the house was oppressive and it had been since the moment he'd sent her back. His finger's itched for her, even as he knew he shouldn't. With time this would pass; he would grow used to the silence and solitude again.

Draco entered the parlor and headed for the bar, pouring himself a drink. He sat down in one of the other chairs. Lucius knew he still kept tabs on Cassandra, a soldier he had irrationally released from punishment for dereliction of duty, yet his son still refused to compromise on his choice. Draco never confided his feelings, but it wasn't difficult to guess there were feeling, hence the irrational choices.

"Is Scorpius in tonight?" Lucius asked.

"He is here," Draco said. "I have told him to come down for dinner."

They waited in silence. Lucius wasn't in the mood to discuss affairs tonight, still feeling… tender from seeing Miss Samra that day.

"There seems to have been no ill effects on her," Draco said and Lucius knew who he was referring to.

"No," Lucius said curtly and took a sip of his drinks. If Draco knew the impact of the episode had been more far reaching than a mere nuisance, he didn't let on.

Scorpius appeared, looking slightly more sullen since he'd accepted the eventuality of his marriage. There was no denying he hadn't been the same since having to deal with his ghost.

Feelings were at the center of all their ill fortune this year, and it had been a difficult year for the Malfoys for that exact reason. Love, it burrowed in and consumed from the inside. Love could not be created by a potion or a spell, or even commanded. Perhaps all it took was the right approach, and it wreaked devastation in its path. Resolve would crumble ahead of its power and they'd all suffered the effects of it this year.

Lucius had to consider if someone was playing a long and involved game with them, one that had them all questioning their commitment to their cause, let alone their lives. It was an effective weapon if he'd ever seen one. If it were true, it was a wily opponent—beyond anything he'd seen. Or perhaps it was just bad luck, one that had infected them all in turn. The most insidious side effect though, was that none of them would change what had happened, even if they were just about crushed by it.

As a tactic, this was something to keep this in mind for the future. Not that he knew exactly what it was that had sparked it, had flipped these encounters into something that burrowed deep and kept burning. Still though, even as he knew he should wish it away, he wouldn't change it, including having to sit across from her for months, even years, watching the dislike in her eyes. His dreams told another path, but that would have to be a life that lived only in his slumbering hours.

The End


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